


Moonstruck

by trepkos



Series: Altered States [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Timeline, Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mad Scientists, Masturbation, Prison Sex, Prisoner abuse, Rescue, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, The Initiative, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepkos/pseuds/trepkos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike finds himself in need of rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Series rating: NC17/Adults Only overall, m/m slash  
> Warnings: a later chapter in the first story, 'Moonstruck' includes description of vivisection.  
> Standard disclaimer, no copyright infringement intended.  
> Quotes are from [ "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint Exupery ](http://www.angelfire.com/hi/littleprince/frames.html)  
> Betas: shadowscast, pazuk and Harriet. Also advice from earlier readers. Feedback: Yes please.  
> This fic is for eliade \- because Spike and Riley sometimes make sense.

**Prologue**

_"So I lived my life alone, without anyone that I could really talk to…." _

Riley Finn was army surplus.

Born on the Fourth of July, he'd shot up fast like a sunflower, until even in the vastness of Iowa he'd felt too big. He outgrew the farm, and he outgrew the State: a magic beanstalk with no castle at the top.

Oh, his family loved him – of course they did. That was what family was for, right? But they didn't need him.

So he'd left, to go find somewhere he was needed.

To fight the good fight.

And Iowa expanded to fill the Riley-shaped gap.

When he went home at Thanksgiving, or on his mom's birthday, he felt big and clumsy in the family farmhouse, bumping into furniture and cracking his head on the beams. The last time he was there, he'd knocked over and broken his mom's favourite vase – the one her mom had left her. She'd told him not to fret over it, but he did.

He found that the girl he'd left behind had cried and moved on in his absence, and he'd hugged and understood.

But the hollow ache in his chest was not for her.

He looked over her shoulder into the distance, across the waving corn, wondering when he would find his mission.

**Day 1**

_"But he saw nothing, save peaks of rock that were sharpened like needles." _

White.

Everything was white.

Why was everything white?

Spike's head was throbbing, so he couldn't be in heaven: fat chance of that. And he was flat on his back – felt like his spine had been welded to the floor.

When he tried to sit up, nausea threatened to overtake him, and there were lines – lines everywhere, winding off in meaningless perspectives, reflecting back on each other, and back again. It looked like a holo-deck: but those hadn't been invented yet.

Or had they?

Perhaps he was in the Matrix? The name seemed fitting, but as he'd never bothered to watch the film, he didn't rightly know. He had an idea there were supposed to be some different coloured magic pills to get him out of here – but there was nothing in this picture that wasn't white.

It wasn't long before there was a bit of colour about the place: red, as he rolled onto his side and puked up his last meal, a pretty unappetising fast-food junkie. Jesus fuck, what was going on?

Again, he tried to rise, but his hand slipped on the blood-vomit. Maybe this was a nightmare. He really hoped so.

A disembodied voice, coming from somewhere off to his right, said, "Well, that's a fairly typical vampire reaction to tasering."

Spike realised that he was staring at a tiled wall, and turned his head to find the speaker: a hard-faced bitch with a white coat, a clipboard and eyes that could freeze molten lava.

"You don't say?" he managed to splutter in reply, receiving a Medusa glare for his efforts. So that was it. He'd been hit with some new-fangled gizmo, though for what purpose he had no idea.

He could tell there was a transparent barrier between him and the lab-coat. Under normal conditions he would have launched himself at it, in full fangs, and the hope that it wasn't, as he suspected, toughened more than he was. But for the moment, even lifting his head off the floor made him heave, never mind about getting to his feet.

"Come on Spike," he muttered to himself, quietly enough that a normal human shouldn't be able to hear him. "'Do, or do not, there is no try.'"

Finally, after an intense struggle under the cold regard of his enemy, Spike managed to attain a sitting position. Deciding that for once, he should have the sense to watch and learn instead of shooting his mouth off, he stared warily back at the woman watching him, and at the square-jawed chump in fatigues who stood beside her, clear-eyed and innocent-looking.

Spike made no further move except to wipe the blood fastidiously off his hands and onto his jeans.

He found himself being coolly assessed for a few more seconds, and then the woman made some notes and addressed her companion: "Agent Finn."

"Professor Walsh?"

She looked up at him with confidence. "This one and the three other HSTs we captured today are scheduled for controlled regeneration tests. Detail your men to take them to the basement cells first thing tomorrow: the cells with the barred fronts. We'll need to dart the test subjects periodically for x-rays and other assessment procedures."

Agent Finn nodded. "Yes Professor, I'll have it seen to immediately." He looked curiously at the creature behind the glass. "What is he, Professor?"

"This _specimen_ –" she said, making no attempt to hide her disapproval of his choice of pronoun, "– is a vampire."

Frowning in puzzlement, the soldier backed up to get a look into the adjacent cells, both of which contained beings that were very obviously vampires. Now Spike was paying attention he could hear them snarling, and he sensed that they were in game-face, as you'd expect from fledges, especially in this situation.

"But he – it – looks human," Agent Finn said. "No bumpy head, no fangs. How do we know he's a vampire?" He eyed Spike doubtfully. "Is it the outfit?"

Spike blew out a scornful puff of air.

"It showed as 'cold' on the night sights," the Professor explained. "And, as you now see –" she said, pointing with her pen at the red vomit, pooling and congealing on the tiles, "– it drinks blood, which is usually, though not invariably, indicative of vampirism."

She patted Agent Finn confidentially on the arm. "It seems that not all vampires show their fangs and distorted features all of the time. We've known this for a while, but it was thought wise not to cause alarm by letting that information be too widely known. It could lead to … accidents. One day I plan to find out why some show the features and some hide them, but that's academic and will have to wait. I suspect it might be genetic, but it may be due to certain chemical inhibitors."

Turning away to hide his expression of disbelief at the woman's ignorance, Spike somehow managed to keep himself from saying out loud what he was thinking: 'Maybe you should just ask, instead of chasing them round tasering 'em. I'd have explained it to you before I broke your scrawny neck.' He just thanked his stars that for all their fancy gadgets, this bunch were about as well-informed as pig-shit.

That was good. Spike had no intention of helping to rectify the deficiencies in their knowledge if he could help it.

When he turned back, his two visitors were proceeding towards the next cell, though he saw the boy – apparently still perplexed – glance back towards him before moving on.

 

** _"'It is also lonely among men,' the snake said."_ **

After that, the day passed timelessly. Spike imagined that he felt the sun go down, but nothing was certain in this glorified fridge. After his head stopped spinning, he amused himself for a while by making faces at the Chaos demon in the cell opposite.

When he was finally able to stand, he paced, and periodically flung himself at the barrier. It was electrified, but at least the pain helped wake him up, and alleviated the boredom for a bit. Then he got talking with the neighbours. Something the vampire in the adjacent cubicle said aroused his suspicions that the Slayer was involved in this venture, but after indulging in a fairly satisfying rant about it, he realised that this wasn't remotely possible. Buffy – for all her annoying blondeness – knew her stuff, while this lot couldn't find their arses in the dark without specialised equipment.

It didn't add to his self esteem that they'd got him banged up in a near impenetrable box, absence of the slightest idea about vampires notwithstanding.

Trying to guess his location killed a bit of time. He watched, taking care not to look too interested, as an assortment of apparently medical and military personnel came and went. Judging by the pressure he was underground – probably in a concrete bunker knowing military types. The number of other assorted demons in the place told him that he was likely still on – or under – what passed for home turf: Sunnyhell. It also told him that this wasn't just somewhere they brought any of the troops that happened to be feeling a bit peaky.

This was a serious – and secret – operation.

As the night crept into the small hours, Spike's predicament began to scare the shit out of him. In a moment of clarity, he realised that no one above ground, living or dead, knew where he was, or would have given a toss even if they did.

Not Angel. The Angelus of old would have moved hell to get him out. Angelus regarded the privilege of tormenting and subjugating his offspring as his prerogative: his alone. But even if Angel, LA Vamp Detective – the castrated, soulful version of his sire – did somehow get wind of his plight, he'd happily let him rot here.

Could hardly blame him for that, all things – including hot pokers and Mozart – considered.

That airhead Harmony might still be in the area, but she'd be unlikely to lift a finger to help him after the way he'd treated her: taken out his pain on her. Not that she was much good in a fight. Come to think of it, this outfit had probably nabbed her already.

As for Dru: well, she was in Brazil, without a thought in her head for him.

The thought of his Dark Princess drew a deep sigh of longing from Spike. He shook his head angrily to dismiss the visions of the past that threatened to engulf him yet again. Crying wasn't going to help. Well, it never had before. No more rambling down Memory Lane, not for him, not now.

He had to focus.

Though he was trying not to panic, it was clear that this time, his back was really against the wall; fists and fangs weren't likely to cut it against tasers. William the Bloody was going to need guile as well, if he was going to get out of this with his un-life. Screwing his courage into a tight knot inside him, he promised himself that somehow, he'd find some way to fight or finagle his way out of here: wherever 'here' was, and if there was a way out.

Bollocks to the lot of 'em.

A buzzer sounded, and a pack of blood dropped from the ceiling. He was hungry, but in the light of his neighbour's earlier warning that it might be drugged, he decided to ignore it for now. It was probably cold as well as poisoned.

Spike continued pacing.

What had the harpy said he was scheduled for? Rejuvenation tests? What, they wanted to work out how vampires lived so long without 'showing the signs of aging' or some such rot? That couldn't be right. No one went to all this trouble for wrinkle cream, did they?

Actually, now he thought about it, they did.

Fuck! Why hadn't he paid attention?

Frustrated with himself, and dog-tired, he flung himself down into the back right corner of the ice cube, and shoved a hand in his pocket, feeling for a packet of fags he remembered being there. There were two in it. One of them was bent in the middle, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Then he fished around for his lighter. It was nowhere on his person; he must dropped it when he was taken down.

Bugger!

He flung the crumpled pack across the cell. Re-checking his pockets, he found a book in one of them. What was it? Some nonsense Harmony had got him reading to her, in exchange for sexual favours. Kid's book really.

But there was nothing else to do, so he settled down to read.

 

**Night 1**

_"Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far…"_

Riley lay on his back in his bed, thinking. This made him uncomfortable. Not the bed: that was okay – but the thinking part. These days, when he wasn't marking students' papers to make sure their thinking was in line with that of Professor Walsh, thinking was something he tried to avoid. It was simpler just to pick a team, and defer to whoever was in charge. Let them do the thinking for him.

But now, he was thinking about demons. Some of those demons in the cells – well, they looked like demons. The possession of tentacles, pointy parts, slime, and any combination of the above, was usually enough to satisfy him as to a thing's demonic qualities – at least if it was walking upright. Until today, Riley had never seen a vampire out of uniform, without the fangs.

Well, if he had, he hadn't known it.

But that one he'd seen today, dressed in black and red, and pale as chalk; obviously dehydrated; slipping in his own vomit, trying to rise, and then slipping again: that vampire had looked human. The capture squad may have used night-sights to pin him down as a 'cold one' but – well, to Riley, he looked like a regular guy.

Okay, maybe not regular, but pathetically, almost painfully human. In another life they might have been …

No, that was ridiculous. None of his friends looked like that. Maybe if they did …

Riley shook his head. This was going nowhere helpful. He realised that for the past few moments, he'd been rubbing his hand over his stomach, back and forth, back and forth. It wasn't particularly comforting.

'Animals' – Forrest had called them: 'all of them.'

On an uncharacteristic impulse, Riley got up off the bed, pulled on some clothes and went to take another look at the human-looking monster in the cells.

 

_ **"'I cannot play with you,' the fox said. 'I am not tamed.'" ** _

Spike rubbed his hands across his eyes.

Must be getting sentimental in his old age. Hell, who was he kidding? He'd always been a sentimental idiot, and this book was getting to him. He was seeing himself or Dru on every other page. Still couldn't believe she'd dumped him. Capricious, that's what she was.

God, he missed that mad bint.

Everything he'd done for the past hundred years and more had been trying to look out for her, but it seemed she didn't need him to keep her safe after all. Just as well really. Couldn't even keep himself out of trouble these days.

He shifted to try and find a comfortable sleeping position, then realised that he was being watched. The young pup – the one that had been following at the old dog's heels earlier on – was now staring at him from the other side of the pane. Spike quickly covered his unease and slouched into a more nonchalant pose, while deftly sweeping the book under his coat.

What the hell was the kid doing here in the middle of the night, and looking so nervous too? Funny, considering which one of them was in a cage.

Okay: may as well take the initiative.

"What's your name, Soldier Boy?"

The boy answered on automatic pilot, "Riley Finn. What's yours?" Riley Finn shook his head slightly, looking vexed with himself for giving it up so easily. "No, wait. Do vampires even have names?"

Hell, this bloke didn't know anything. Spike looked at the tiles, considering.

"Well, do you?" Riley shifted his position and flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes.

"Do I what?" Spike kept his tone was curious, relaxed.

~~

Riley felt that he was being toyed with, but decided to ignore it; to remain civil to the prisoner. No need to forget his manners. So he asked patiently, "Do you have a name?"

"I do." A slight smile touched the vampire's lips.

Becoming slightly frustrated, Riley took a few forward paces. "Well – what is it? I've told you mine."

~~

Amused, despite his situation, Spike looked up into the candid grey eyes, considering. What was that he saw there? Kid was … lonely. That was it. This, he could use. On a brilliant hunch, he let his attitude drop; let his past drift gently to the surface.

"My name is William. William Bennett."

Riley shuffled uncomfortably. "You're from England, right?"

"That's right." All Spike's instincts were telling him to play nice with the polite hunk-turned-prison-visitor, so he treated Riley to his most natural smile, trying to put him at his ease. "And yourself?"

"I'm from Iowa," Riley said.

"I hear it's very pleasant there."

"It's very big," Riley volunteered gamely.

"Is it indeed?"

Noticing just in time that Riley seemed taken aback by the hint of suggestiveness, Spike resisted a smirk, and changed tack – played the geek card. "Iowa, that's where Captain Kirk's supposed to come from, isn't it?"

"Yeah, so they say." Riley looked sheepish, but also absurdly proud. "I think there's a plaque somewhere ... our one claim to fame."

~~

This last admission was more honest than Riley really thought appropriate when dealing with an HST. It was definitely time to get back on a more formal footing. He rubbed his hands nervously on his fatigues and backed away from the barrier. He hadn't realised he'd gotten so close.

"Well, William – if that's really your name – I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

Riley started to raise a hand as if to wave goodbye, but stopped himself just in time, and made a fist instead, smacking it lamely into his other palm, before beating a slightly embarrassed retreat.

As he left the basement and mounted the stairs, Riley reviewed his closing remark. He shook his head. 'I'll be seeing you tomorrow'. It was a moronic thing to have said to a prisoner: as though they'd arranged to go for a beer together; as though they were both looking forward to it.

Like they were friends.

What had he been thinking?

Yes, he would be seeing William tomorrow: seeing that he was moved down to the basement cells without escaping; seeing that he was ready for whatever research Professor Walsh had in mind.

He'd never had a conversation with an HST before. Now, he wished he'd left it that way.

When Riley finally got to sleep, he dreamed of unicorns – beautiful, blue-eyed unicorns, pale as milk - being hunted by men driving humvees and armed with machine guns.

He woke up in a cold sweat.


	2. A Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike finds himself a White Hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB. Descriptions of vivisection and intended sexual abuse of a prisoner occur in this chapter.

**Day 2**

_"'You move me to pity – you are so weak on this Earth…'"_

The next morning, as Riley Finn – corn-fed Iowa boy – took a shower, he couldn't shake off the image of the enigmatic William Bennett – a vampire in eyeliner: exotic, challenging, and oh! so polite – kneeling on the tiles in front of him. He jerked off with harsh, angry strokes, not sure where his anger was directed, and definitely not trying to find out. As he towelled himself dry and got into his uniform, he pushed the disturbing thoughts firmly to the back of his mind.

Still feeling ill-at-ease, like his skin didn't quite fit properly, he went down to see to his first job of the day. He had to check on the operation to move the four selected vamps – including the one he now couldn't help thinking of as an individual named 'William Bennett' – down to the cells on the lower level.

While not the easiest of conversations, last night's encounter with William had been lacking in the threats and rabid snarling he had been expecting. It had unnerved him. He was looking forward to finding out whether a night's sleep had made any difference to the impression he'd formed. But when he went past the four containment cells topside, they were already empty. Suddenly and unaccountably anxious, he didn't wait for the elevator but took the single flight of stairs down to the basement.

As he strode towards the cells allocated to the vampires, he saw that Forrest and Jay were having trouble manhandling William into his new accommodation. William didn't seem to be resisting so much as groggy. The drugged blood must still be having an effect. His men were being a bit rough with the prisoner, but Riley was unwilling to intervene in case he put them in danger. After all, the vampire might be putting on an act.

~~

Spike, for his part, was beginning to wish he'd ignored the plastic-wrapped rations, as he'd originally planned. If the drugs hadn't disabled him so badly this would have been a good opportunity to take a hostage – try and escape. But he'd got hungry, and immediate gratification had been tempting in the absence of anything else to do. He staggered as his escorts pushed him into the end cell, and the book fell out of his pocket. He reached for it.  
The black guy, who seemed to be called 'Forrest', got there first. The man glanced at the cover and barked out a sharp laugh. "What's this? Does the widdle biddy vampire like a bedtime story?"

The man pressed Spike against the wall, shoving the book in his face, and Spike – suddenly, instinctively in game-face – tried to push him off, but Forrest jumped backwards and Spike fell to his knees. The other flatfoot, who looked like he chewed tractors in his spare time, was on him in an instant, catching him a glancing blow to the side of the head with a nightstick.

Spike went down, all the way this time.

They pulled him to his feet, and Forrest was back in his face, yelling, "Try that again, you'll be extremely sorry."

They had him sandwiched between them, one in front and one behind. Even in his drugged state, Spike could feel that both of them were hard. He knew it didn't mean much. Violence could do that to a bloke. Nevertheless, he glanced at each of them in turn and murmured languidly, "Sorry boys. Not that I don't appreciate the attention and whatall, but uniforms just don't do it for me."

** _"What?" _ **

They couldn't let go fast enough. He collapsed to the floor again.

~~

Seeing Forrest about to land a kick to the prisoner's torso, Riley made his presence known with a cheerful greeting.

"Hey! Guys! Have we got them all moved yet?"

Forrest's movement segued from a boot in the ribs to a sharp about-face. "All taken care of. No problems – except with this faggot. Thinks he's pretty cute."

They exited the cell and Jay pressed the lever that slammed the bars closed.

Still riled-up, Forrest went on, "Professor Walsh'll wipe the smile off pansy-ass British guy's face."

"Sure she will," Riley humoured him. Then he pretended to notice the book for the first time. "Hey, what's that?" he said, extending a hand towards it.

Unwilling to give up his prize, Forrest brandished it casually. "Children's book." His face registered disgust as he studied it more closely. "By some fruity French dude. Vamp must have stole it from some kid. Probably killed the kid first."

When Riley showed no sign of losing interest in the item, Forrest reluctantly handed it over, and Riley took charge of it. "Professor Walsh will probably want this," he said, not really thinking any such thing, and stowing it in one of his many pockets.

Unswervingly hearty, he bluffed breezily on, pretending not to have noticed the violent undercurrents. "Okay! Let's move out! The Professor has another job for us."

~~

As Riley mother-ducked Forrest and Jay towards the elevators, Spike felt his guts lurch with an unfamiliar feeling of gratitude. For no apparent reason, Iowa Boy had saved him from a kicking. Kid was a White Hat: the genuine article.

Well, this could be very useful.

Spike stayed down, watching Riley as intently as the hypnotic drugs he'd been fed would allow. When Riley glanced back towards him, he held the man's gaze for a long moment, nodded slightly in silent thanks for the intervention. Then he let the demon face fade, and looked at the floor in calculated submission.

~~

His heart speeding up a little, Riley flushed. Feeling disturbed, and not for the first time today, he hastened after his men, while wondering what to do about their new hobby: tormenting the HSTs.

 

**Day 3**

_"It is such a secret place, the land of tears." _

Stupid name for a dog, 'Cecily'. But William had to call her that; it was the only name on his mind, and it meant that he could rhyme to his heart's content, and dissemble that his love poems were just satirical odes to his dog. As a ruse, it fooled no-one, least of all the other young fellows who mocked his infatuation, but it gave him some relief from his pain to gaze into those adoring spaniel eyes; to murmur, 'I love you Cecily …' and imagine that the lady loved him back, as much as his dog clearly did.

Then, the nightmare.

As the housemaid attended to the coal-merchant, she allowed Cecily to run out into the street, where – confused by the noise and bustle – the dog was soon lost among the carriage wheels and horses' hooves and hurrying feet.

Utterly distraught, William lashed out in such fury that the maid was reduced to tear. He was sorry for it. He berated the Fates, and heaped insults upon himself for not keeping a closer watch on his beloved pet. He flung himself about the streets and alleys, calling, 'Cecily!' and pouring all his despair for the lack of both ladies of that name into his cries.

Exhausted and sobbing, he turned towards home, hoping with all his heart that his pet would be sitting by the door, in wait.

She was not.

Instead, he returned to the horror of a newspaper report, detailing how dogs were being taken from the streets for use in surgical demonstrations at the London medical schools. Beside himself with grief, he had to be given a sedative.

His dog did not return.

Later that week, William's mother persuaded him that he had recovered himself sufficiently to attend one of Cecily's soirees. It did nothing to improve his condition. Eavesdropping on a conversation, he was sickened to hear one of his contemporaries blithely describing how he had spent the day. Fletcher – that vulgarian – and a hundred other medical students, had observed with interest, while a dog – a cocker spaniel – had been cut open, its guts laid out for their supposed edification. A 'noisy little bitch' Fletcher had called her. The poor dog had screamed on the operating table, and had only stopped screaming when her vocal cords were severed. They had left her alive and in silent agony while they went to lunch.

Spike remembered how William had pressed his hands over his ears, wanting to block out the painful things – the awful things – that his fellow humans had done.

Humans? They were worse than beasts. They were demons in human form.

And he knew in his heart that the dog they had tortured and eventually killed was his dear Cecily.

Fletcher himself had perished in an equally painful fashion, a few days after William's sudden and mysterious disappearance from the London social scene. Though William's body was never discovered, Fletcher's was found eviscerated in an alley behind his own medical school.

The railroad spike had been merely a courtesy detail.

It was funny really – Spike wanted to laugh hysterically to think of it – but here was the thing: he was incapable of moving a muscle. Actually, he wanted to scream, but that luxury too was denied him, as he lay on the operating table, arms pinned wide, surrounded by human demons in green lab-coats.

They'd hit him with some kind of hypno-dart, secured him to this table, then injected him with something – probably curare or some modern equivalent.

He could still hear and see what was going on.

That boy Finn was standing a little way off, just in view. He looked a bit disturbed but – this time – showed no sign of intervening on Spike's behalf. He'd been in charge of the men who'd brought Spike to the operating table.

That harridan – the one with the mouth full of lemons – was standing over him, holding some kind of large surgical implement.

Angelus would have known what it was called.

Yes, he could still see alright – and he could still feel.

The cutting had been surprisingly painless; it usually was when the blade was sharp, Spike recalled. It was when his ribs were cranked forcibly apart that the sickening, wrenching sensation of being broken open nearly made him lose consciousness.

And there was the Professor, like some alternate-reality Margaret Thatcher, looking at his insides like they were something she'd found on her shoe.

The pain was insupportable. He tried to concentrate on it in the hope of blacking out, because there was not a bloody thing he could do about it; no secret he could tell that would make them take it away; no submission he could offer.

The knowledge they sought was going to be torn from him.

Oblivion refused to come to his aid, because the bitch kept distracting him – describing what she was doing for the benefit of her audience.

"As you see, most of the major organs are intact, but somewhat atrophied. What we are interested in, is whether a vampire can regenerate one or all of these organs, and whether they even need them to survive." She paused. "Which organ do you think we should try this with first, Dr Angleman?"

"Well, not the heart!" Angleman quipped.

She regarded at him dryly. "Obviously."

Looking contrite, he suggested, "How about the liver?"

"Well, let's try cutting half away, and see if it grows back."

No, please …

"We could take a kidney too," Angleman suggested brightly.

~~

Riley was having trouble with this conversation. He could hardly believe what he was hearing and wanted so very badly to block his ears.

He hadn't known – or at least, when he'd helped strap William to the gurney and bring him here to The Pit, he'd told himself he didn't know – what kind of 'procedures' were going to take place. He'd never been required to watch what went on here before. That had been up to the medical personnel, and he'd been happy to keep it that way.

But Professor Walsh had decided that it would be 'educational' for each patrol unit to get a closer look at her work. She'd said it would provide 'insight', and be better for morale if they knew why they had to capture some of the HSTs rather than just kill them.

And today – of all days – it was the turn of Riley's unit to watch the show.

Hoping to see some echo of the horror he was feeling in his friend's eyes, Riley looked across at Graham to see how he was dealing. But Graham was as impassive and unreadable as ever.

Riley's brain was almost shutting down.

But because he'd chosen a career in Special Forces, he was obliged to stand and watch this … being … who he knew as William Bennett – who he'd jerked off to in the shower again this morning, for Christ's sake – being torn open: disembowelled before his eyes.

He tried not to see – not to let himself focus on what was happening – but for a brief, searing instant, his gaze locked with William's wide and terrified eyes. His stomach turned over. He blinked, swallowed and forced himself to look away.

His glance fell on Forrest. He looked … amused. 'Just animals,' Forrest always said.

But Riley didn't want to see this being done to an animal. He didn't want to have helped it happen, to an animal or to a vampire. He stood watching in silence, because it was all he could do.

~~

Spike too – his existence reduced to one long silent scream – could only watch as Professor Walsh excised parts of his body, flopped them casually into a dish, and told one of her acolytes to take the samples to the path. lab.

That was when the blessed darkness took him.

~~

The Professor had detailed Riley to supervise the return of the 'experimental models' to the basement. When his team arrived at the cells with the gurneys, Riley quickly stepped up and took William by the shoulders, telling Graham to take his legs. Together they transferred him to the floor of the cell.

It was hard to take: leaving a man – any man – on a cold, tiled floor after major surgery.

No bed, no meds, no 'Get Well Soon' cards.

Riley somehow contrived to look like he didn't care, but still managed to avoid banging the unconscious vampire's head on the tiles.

He heard cracks and thuds as the other 'models' were returned to their accommodation with even less ceremony than William, but he had more than enough to worry about already. Conflicted hardly covered what Riley was feeling at this point. The armies of Charlemagne and the Saracen king were doing the fandango in his brain. He'd always thought of himself as the courageous but foolhardy hero Roland, or at the very least, his noble companion Oliver. Now he found he was questioning the motives and methods of his leader.

And that way lay a future of selling his side out with a kiss.

There was nothing: nothing at all he could do for the prisoner without attracting attention. Feeling helpless; feeling compromised, Riley excused himself from further duty, and made his escape.

 

** _"But seeds are invisible. They sleep deep in the heart of the earth's darkness, until some one among them is seized with the desire to awaken." _ **

This was not good.

A crush on a guy – he could cope with that. It wouldn't be the first time. They'd all been there: found themselves the subject or the object of what was usually a passing phenomenon. You just had to ignore it – get on with the job. When you worked so closely with other guys, especially the long hours and dangerous work they did together, sometimes you got these feelings. It was only natural.

Anyway, he was cool with the whole gay thing. The fact that it didn't freak him like it did some of the men – well, he took that as a sign that maybe it wasn't the way his path led. Not that it would bother him. Guys his size didn't have to worry too much about getting picked on. But you couldn't bring this stuff into the workplace. It could compromise operational efficiency, and now he'd been promoted over his friends, it would have been even more improper.

But _this_: this was so wrong.

William was a prisoner.

Okay, he was a vampire – not covered by the Geneva Convention – but it was still wrong to have thoughts like the ones he was having. It was wrong to have them about anyone, but especially someone under his charge. It must be some kind of sickness.

And where was all this coming from?

Riley shook his head like a wet dog, trying to shake the thoughts out, and pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. He'd never had much of an imagination before, but one seemed to have been suddenly inserted into his brain by the God of Unwanted Talents.

… William, on his knees before him, those knowing eyes seeing through him, and answering his every wish before it was spoken …

Stop thinking! Think of apple pie.

… William, handcuffed spread-eagled to the bars of a cell built from interlocking crosses, screaming as his skin was burned and branded …

Shit!

… William, his hands manacled to the end of a surgical table, being worked mercilessly by Forrest, as Riley watched …

Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him?

Maybe sadism was infectious. He wanted to sear these images from the retina of his mind's eye, but it felt like it was spinning out of orbit. This vampire – no, this man – was completely at his mercy, in his imagination, and effectively in reality, and it was turning him on.

If there'd been any romance in the frenzied inventions of his mind, or even a little respect, he could have borne it. As it was, they just made him hate himself.

Riley took a deep breath, and reminded himself that in reality, he'd been sick to his stomach to see Forrest threatening and tormenting William. He hadn't felt the least desire to join in the bullying, and he'd put a stop to it.

He wasn't a monster.

So why was he torturing himself with these sick fantasies? It wasn't healthy, it wasn't right, and it was making him horny as a bitch on heat. He needed help. But where was he gonna get it? For all he knew, he might be the only person on the base who would even see this as a problem.

Jerking off with these brutal and invasive thoughts in his head was unthinkable, for all the painful hardness in his fatigues.

But none of the torments his mind could dream up for William – however humiliating, however debauched, however painful they might be – none of the visions that crowded his overheated brain could eclipse the cold horror of what he had just witnessed: his mentor, cutting out body parts from a living being, with no more concern or compassion than if she had been doing decoupage.

Sickened, with her; with himself; with everything, he went to the gym to take it out on an innocent punching bag.

 

**Night 3**

_"It was a question of life or death for me…."_

'SUBJECT 4. WATER.'

That was the only information divulged by the sign taped to the right of William's cell.

Riley stopped a medical orderly who happened to be passing, and said, "'Water'? What does that mean?"

"Oh, that's just the designated diet," the orderly replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"'Water'?" Riley repeated, still not understanding. "That's a diet?"

The orderly rolled his eyes, as though thoroughly fed up with explaining how experiments were framed to uncomprehending men with guns. "Subject One's diet is pig's blood; Subject Two's is human blood; Subject Three is on human plasma only, and this one – Subject Four – is on plain water. The numbers were randomly assigned."

Sighing and shaking his head at Riley's baffled expression, the orderly moved off towards the elevators.

"'Water'," Riley said again out loud, still having trouble wrapping his head around it.

Vampires, he'd been told, had accelerated healing powers. But no one could expect a wound like that to heal without nourishment, right?

But that was precisely the point, wasn't it? William was the 'control'. His function was to show how much and in what ways a vampire's condition would naturally deteriorate, in comparison to the recovery rates or otherwise of the other vampires – 'test subjects' – who had had the same organs excised, but were being given the various kinds of blood.

Based on what he knew about the capture time, Riley figured that William couldn't have fed for over forty-eight hours, apart from the drugged blood.

And now – having had the shortest straw drawn for him – he was being deliberately starved.

Riley flushed with anger, and leashed it with difficulty. It made him feel sick.

He braced himself to look into William's cell. The poor bastard was still lying where they had left him this morning, on his back, on cold, bare tiles. His black 501s were rusted with his own blood and his chest was a gaping cavity: not bandaged, hell, it wasn't even stitched. His eyes were dark smudges in a face paler than should be possible, even for the un-dead.

As Riley stood outside the cell, half-paralysed with indecision, William began to whimper, scratching at the raw edges of the wound in a semi-conscious fever-state. His eyes were still closed, and Riley noticed the REMs. The 'experimental model' was dreaming; William's face grew tight with misery, as he called out a name – "Cecily …" – then began to cry, silently, in his sleep.

Riley's heart contracted. This was unbearable; he had to do something. He looked quickly left and right. The orderly had gone, and there were no surveillance cameras in the basement. He worked the mechanism and slipped into the cell, sliding the bars almost closed behind him, then he knelt by the side of the prisoner, and thumbed a tear from the sharp cheekbone.

"Shhhh. It's okay," Riley murmured. "It's okay."

~~

Spike woke with a jerk, his eyes wide and golding. Finding himself unbound, he tried to shuffle backwards on his heels and elbows, curling up like paper run against a blade as each attempt to get away left him collapsing pitiably with an agonised gasp.

This was it then. This was the end.

Finn didn't seem to be holding any sharp implements or weapons, but Spike was painfully aware that a schoolgirl could have ripped his heart out of his chest with her bare hand. Instinctively, he made himself as small as possible, huddled in the corner protecting the injury.

For a moment Riley was fumbling in a pocket. Then with agonising slowness, he took a Bowie knife out of its sheath.

Spike went limp. So this was how it was going to end for William the Bloody. A laugh started in his throat but quickly died. He was bloody now alright. Be a bit worse in a minute or two, when the Teutonic One had his way.

… Think of something … anything … must have been in worse spots than this and got out of 'em …

Spike flattened himself against the wall, turning his head away and exposing his throat. If this was the last throw of the dice, it'd better be a good one.

Making his voice low and humble, he dared to suggest, "A stake would be more merciful, Sir."

Riley's eyes widened. "No! I'm not here to kill you."

The look of concern on the boy's face and his mollifying tone allowed Spike to feel a small flutter of hope. With an anxious glance at the blade, he asked, "What's that for then? I need more bits cutting out?"

As an answer, Riley quickly drew the blade across the palm of his left hand, splitting it like a ripe fruit. He held the cut towards Spike.

What? What was this? Spike stared at the blood welling up in the cut. He didn't dare make a move. This must be some kind of trick.

Then Riley shuffled closer on his haunches, and pressed the cut to Spike's mouth, leaving him no choice but to feed. He was starving, and the aroma of the blood seeping from the wound was so potent that the change was irresistible.

He drew desperately on the blood, expecting it to flow intolerably slowly from the cut, and it was a good thing it did. The hit nearly knocked him back – made him pull out in surprise. Finn's blood was almost like a Slayer's – rich and intoxicating. There was just a slight chemical tang that distinguished it, like the difference between sugar and artificial sweetener. Despite his enforced starvation and injuries, Spike found that very soon, he'd had as much as he could take. He pulled out, wary but grateful, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, then licking it clean.

It wouldn't be polite to waste any.

~~

Riley had barely felt the fangs slide down and in; he was transfixed. When Spike withdrew, Riley remained squatting, swaying slightly, as if a cobra had him in its sights. Even now the vampire had released him Riley could still feel the pull on his blood supply, rhythmic and soothing. He heard a voice, at once distant and very close.

"That's some brew you've got in those veins of yours, Soldier."

Blinking awake, Riley nearly lost his balance, and as he came to his senses, he noticed the vampire's gaze re-focussing past him and over his shoulder. Then William grabbed him weakly by the elbow and muttered an urgent instruction: "Threaten me."

Confused, Riley quickly complied, putting his knife to William's throat and improvising "... and let that be a lesson to you, Vampire!" For appearances, he made a shallow curving cut on William's left cheek which welled up, a crescent of red on the white skin. Then he stood shakily, and composed his features before turning to see who was behind him.

It was just the orderly. Covering his relief, Riley quickly hid his bleeding hand behind his back.

The orderly looked a little vexed. "You shouldn't cause stress to the experimental subject; it could bias the results."

William made a choking sound behind him, and Riley said, "Sorry – just horsing around." He slid out of the cell and closed it.

As he was leaving, Riley took a quick glance back, and saw William's head dip almost imperceptibly in thanks. Wanting to say 'Don't mention it,' Riley just shook his head slightly and hoped William would understand.

~~

Too tired, and hurting too much to make any sense of the day's events, Spike dragged himself over to where the rest of his clothes had been thrown this morning, and took refuge under his coat, shivering.

Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep.

~~

Riley was ashamed. Vampires were supposed to be the scary ones, right? Not good guys like him. But William had been afraid of him, and with good reason, after what had happened today; after the torture he'd colluded in, today.

Riley feared he wouldn't be able to sleep without nightmares, so he didn't try. Instead, he lay on his stomach, reading William's book – the one he'd confiscated from Forrest. 'The Little Prince', it was called. It was a strange story: he supposed you'd call it a fable.

Why did William have it? What did it mean to him? Maybe he carried it to remind himself of what was important. Maybe it was his last link to humanity.

It was worrying. Riley had never really thought of vampires as ex-humans before. Any speculation about how vampires came to be what they were had been discouraged in the Initiative, so all he knew was what he'd seen on TV, and what the other guys said. Frankly, he thought the TV version was probably more reliable.

As far as The Initiative was concerned, vampires were treated as just another species of demon, but he now saw there was a clear distinction. William used to be a regular person. He spoke English; could carry a conversation; he knew who Captain Kirk was, and where he came from.

He read books.

Maybe like Riley, he'd been taught to read by his mother.

Riley pictured William's mother teaching him to read, so that he'd have a good start in life; so that when he grew up, he'd have a career he'd love – as a doctor, a teacher, a poet …

She'd probably never have figured that maybe one day, her son would be turned into a vampire and have to dig his way out of his own grave. They never warned you about these possibilities in Health lessons or Careers Education.

Being turned into a vampire was a rough deal when you thought about it. Being violently killed, buried, having to dig yourself out, then living on blood for eternity. No wonder vampires usually looked so pissed; no home, no family, and when you got caught by the Initiative – no rights.

Riley couldn't help wondering how many vampires were too weak to dig themselves out, or got walled up alive in a stone vault, or woke up screaming during cremation.

There was that pesky new imagination of his, doing its thing again. He wished it would stop.

Going back to the book, he continued to speculate: which of them – William Bennett, or Riley Finn – was the one whose plane had crashed and needed repairing.

 

**Day 4**

_"I went to sleep on the sand, a thousand miles from human habitation." _

Spike was woken by the sound of metal wheels on tiles; of a body collapsing to the floor in the next cell; of moans and retching. Remembering where he was, he wished he hadn't. It felt like his guts had been scraped out, and the cavity filled with molten lava. He tried not to think about it – not to move – and remained in a foetal position, feigning sleep.

He took the opportunity to glean information from the conversations going on outside his cell, between the medics and the military personnel. From what he could gather, the 'test subjects', himself included, were scheduled to be 'knocked down' every morning, and taken for a series of 'health checks', including x-rays, blood sampling, and scrutiny of the operation site for signs of healing.

They'd already brought one of the 'specimens' back from his check-up. Spike's turn was yet to come.

He opened a cautious eye, and saw a number of medical technicians with a trolley; heard bars being slid back, and watched a drugged vampire – a young girl, who looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, then forwards, then sideways – being wheeled away. Another vamp, a huge bear of a bloke, was brought back and shoved and hauled into the cell next-but-one. He was half-naked.

Spike supposed the medics had to see the chest wounds to examine them, but he didn't much fancy losing what little protection his clothing gave him, from scrutiny and from the cold. His red shirt had already got lost somewhere along the way and he didn't think his captors were likely to take the trouble to return what was left of his gear to his cell, neatly washed and pressed. So Spike uncurled stiffly and sat up, wincing.

He tried not to draw attention to himself; not to allow the pathetic whimpering sounds he felt rising in his throat to escape – while awkwardly struggling out of his coat and tee-shirt. He shoved them into the corner of the cell and sat there shivering, with his arms wrapped around himself.

The jeans should stay on, he bloody well hoped.

Minutes later, he saw a man in a white coat appear at the bars and raise a blow-pipe to his lips.

Then the lights went out.

~~

Later on, when Spike had woken sufficiently from the drug-induced sleep, he took the time to do his own checks on his injuries. He felt weak as a kitten, but the sizeable chest wound was already showing a bit of an improvement. His ribs still hurt like a bastard.

During the early hours of the morning – a little cheered and much revitalised by the generous blood donation from his unexpected visitor – he'd had the strength and the will to reset the bones the good Professor Walsh had broken for him, and he could feel them starting to knit.

The re-growth of muscle tissue caused a steady feeling of warmth in his torso. If he'd wanted to, he could have watched the blood vessels snaking and branching under the new film of skin that was forming, pushing the granulation margins of the injury closer together, like the Red Sea closing in, only pink. Actually, he preferred not to look at it too closely. Funny really, considering some of the things he'd seen in his time.

By his calculations – for what they were worth – this was his fourth day in this cold, white hell. But the drugs and the exhaustion were kicking in again, and Spike was too dazed and in too much pain to think very clearly about what the future might bring, or how to plan for it, so he lay still, to conserve his energy for the healing process.

 

** _"'… the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart …'" _ **

It was midday.

Riley had spent most of the morning checking his watch, and now he was doing it again; which was dumb, because the sun was out; he could clearly see that it was midday by glancing out of the window. Checking the Initiative's rosters three times hadn't altered the fact that there was no period during daylight hours when he could be sure that William would be unobserved for more than an hour at a time.

A long wait stretched ahead of him.

He hadn't felt any ill-effects from the loss of blood, but he'd made sure to eat a good breakfast anyway, and there would be no meals skipped today, however busy he might be. He had to make sure he had enough in the tank to make up for any further blood loss; it would look bad if he were to pass out. At least it didn't seem like William needed to take very much at a time.

But what had William meant when he'd said it was 'some brew' in Riley's veins?

Maybe vampires just said that kind of thing to be polite.

However much blood was needed, Riley was somehow going to make sure that William was fed. To do anything else was unconscionable. But he couldn't take the risk of feeding him again until gone midnight.

Riley had felt on edge since the very first day: the first time he'd seen William. Even now, with the damage the man had suffered, Riley couldn't help thinking him devastatingly beautiful. But on that first day, even against the white tiled interior, in the full glare of the harsh lights, the newly-captured prisoner had been luminescent, his black coat splayed around him like the wings of an archangel that had crashed and burned.

So … lost. Hungry.

And now he knew the archangel's name, he couldn't get it out of his mind.

He ran his hands through his hair. What had gotten into him? It was only an HST. In a week or two, William – along with the rest of the 'experimental subjects' – would probably be terminated. No, Riley corrected himself: he would be killed; murdered, and there was nothing Riley could do about that, however much he might want to.

Fretfully shuffling the huge pile of students' papers on his desk, Riley dislodged William's book from where he'd left it last night. He picked it up and turned it over and over in his hands.

It didn't belong to him …

This was so not a good idea.

 

** _"'Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day …'" _ **

When Spike awoke to find his benefactor of the night before looking at him through the bars, he was instantly focussed. Though he suspected it was going to hurt – and it did – he struggled to an awkward sitting position.

"Oh. Hello," he said, glancing around to see if they had company. "This an official visit?"

"No, I just came to see how you were doin'," Riley assured him. He rubbed his hands on his thighs.

Kid was nervous. Spike relaxed slightly.

"You look … a little better?" Riley hazarded.

"Yeah, I am – a little," Spike conceded, adding quietly, "Thanks for that."

"I brought your book back," Riley said, quickly changing the subject and offering him the battered paperback. "I hope there isn't a fine."

Having composed himself enough for a shot at light innuendo, Spike answered, "No, I don't charge."

But Riley didn't rise to it, if he even noticed.

Hmmm … Tough room.

Instead, Riley said candidly, "I didn't know vampires read books."

Spike lowered his eyelids thoughtfully, wondering what had really brought Riley Finn down to the vaults to talk to a prisoner in the middle of the day.

Not that he minded. Riley was easy enough on the eye, and talking to him would at least relieve the boredom. Even if a few more draughts of that intoxicating stuff that Riley used for blood was too much to hope for, there was the chance to strengthen his connection with the only friendly face around here, and he might pick up some useful information.

"Yeah," Spike said. "We read books, comics, cereal boxes; minds …"

"You read minds?"

Riley looked alarmed; not only that, but his heart-rate had kicked up a notch. Spike would have loved to know what Riley had been thinking about that he was so anxious not to reveal. Could be anything …

Spike managed a tired smile. "Just kidding," he said.

~~

The prisoner's slightly indulgent smile – as though he were debating the existence of pixies with a sceptical ten year-old – was unnerving, and Riley found himself admitting, "You're a pretty cool customer, considering your situation."

William crossed his legs in front of him and relaxed back against the wall with his hands behind his head. Riley could tell it was a struggle; that for the sake of appearances, William was ignoring the major twinges it caused him – but still, he looked more like a member of a gentleman's club than a prisoner in an underground lab.

"Got to keep my spirits up," William said philosophically. "Doesn't do to let the enemy know they've got you on the ropes."

Blinking in surprise – caught off guard by the honesty – Riley blurted, "I'm not the enemy."

"Well now. I thought I'd just told you that."

As he spoke these words, the vampire pinned Riley with a look that made him feel he was being sucked, naked, into a deep well; it took a mighty effort of will to tear his gaze away. He picked anxiously at the edges of the cut on his palm. It was itching. He wanted to put his hand through the bars; wanted William to feed from him again, now, this minute. But it wouldn't be safe.

He glanced down at the cut and then back up at William, hoping he would get the message. "I'll be back tonight," he said quietly.

William's eyes widened and his lips parted – hope and relief written plainly on his face. "I'll look for you," he said hoarsely.

When Riley got back into the daylight, he was surprised to find that that he was shivering in the Californian sunshine. He told himself it was just nerves; concern for the welfare of another human being. No, wait; hold the 'human'. But even when he got back to his room, it was a while before he could steady his hands enough to go on marking papers.

 

**Night 4**

_"When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey." _

Riley was early. He'd thought he'd judged it right, but the urgency of the question on his mind and his anxiety to get there on time must have given his feet wings, because when he opened the door at the bottom of the stairs a crack, he saw that the night duty medic had not yet gone for his break. He closed the door again quietly and waited until the footsteps told him that the man had gone to the bunk room and the coast was clear.

In a heartbeat, Riley was standing at the bars to William's cell, and – without any pleasantries – he demanded of the prisoner, "What did you mean about my blood? When you said it was 'some brew', what did you mean? That it was different? Not like normal blood?"

~~

Noting the change of pace from the easy-going meander of their last exchange, Spike replied, "I meant what I said. It's like – how can I put this? Like high octane fuel for vampires. A bit like Slayer's blood, only more … artificial-tasting."

Riley frowned. 'Slayer's blood'? What's that?"

"Never heard of Slayer's blood?" Spike said, frowning and thinking hard. He'd naively assumed that a professional demon-fighter would at least know about any NGOs who happened to be on the same mission, but clearly, Riley was in the dark as far as The Chosen One was concerned. It might not be one of Spike's most brilliant tactical moves ever, to let on that he'd bagged a brace of Slayers, especially as Riley hadn't even come to terms with their existence yet. 'Oh, yes there were mermaids, but I killed most of 'em. Sorry.' It just wouldn't look good on his CV.

"It's sort of a vampire cocktail," Spike improvised. "Like a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster. Rocket fuel for the undead. Just blood basically, but the proper stuff, O-Pos., from a hospital, with some sort of magical thingummies added to it. Secret recipe known only to demon bartenders. Probably mandrake root or some such in it. And a dash of bourbon."

At Riley's bewildered expression Spike realised he'd been babbling as he'd tried to cover his gaffe with bluster, so he decided to wind up his impression of a day-time TV chef with something attention-getting.

"It's kind of a … vampire aphrodisiac."

The sentence took a moment to percolate through to Riley's brain. "So you're saying my blood is like an aphro … oh."

Spike snuck a covert glance at Riley. Kid looked a bit shocked at that last suggestion; better tone it down a bit – distract him. "So, what's the Mad Professor been injecting you with then?"

"'Mad Professor'?" Riley's brow creased. "What do you mean?" His face reddened. "She hasn't been injecting me with anything! Well, just the regular shots, tetanus and that kind of thing."

Spike didn't try to hide his scepticism. "Well, I'd never recover this fast on normal human blood, not with what your Professor did to me. Must have something extra in it. Steroids? Demon goo or whatall?"

"No!" Riley looked disturbed. "I take vitamins every day, but that's all. Besides, Professor Walsh wouldn't do that."

"Uh-huh."

"She wouldn't …"

"So how d'you explain the fact that I've been a bundle of nerves all day, waiting for you with my tongue hanging out?" Spike held out a hand in front of him. "Look at that. I'm shakin' like a leaf."

~~

Riley rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was getting a headache. "I don't know," he said. "You're hurt. Maybe it's delayed shock. You didn't get any painkillers."

The realisation of the truth he'd just uttered made Riley pause as it sunk in. It was barbaric; Medieval. He shook his head and continued, "Maybe you're just extra hungry, because you're healing from the surgery?"

"No," William said flatly. "I'm a vampire. Have been for a while. You think I don't know one kind of blood from another? I have to live on the stuff. Can't you tell Blue Stilton from Dutch Edam?"

The vampire paused, and seemed to be searching his pockets for something. Whatever it was, he didn't find it. He ran a hand through his hair and went on, "I can tell you your blood group, white and red blood cell count, whether you've been vaccinated against rabies, you name it. And I'm telling you, in my expert opinion, your blood – it's special."

"But how can you be sure?"

Riley still needed to be convinced. Despite his own growing doubts about Professor Walsh, he felt he had to at least try to defend her against William's wild accusations.

"It's strong. I told you. I can't take much at once." Spike bit his lip. "And I think it's addictive."

The vampire seemed genuinely embarrassed.

"Addictive?" Riley looked searchingly at William. He was starting to believe – though he didn't want to. "So … let me get this straight. You're saying you're getting addicted to my blood, because there's something unnatural in it?"

Without really letting the desire come to the front of his consciousness, Riley had begun to let himself think that his attraction to the vampire who called himself William might be reciprocated, even if only a little. To have whatever he'd thought he'd sensed put down to some chemical addiction was – well, strangely disappointing. But it made his next admission easier. After all, William was just a prisoner. He wasn't in a position to do Riley any real harm.

"Having you feed off me – I think that might be addictive as well. How's that work? Does something pass into my bloodstream?"

~~

Spike tried to keep his expression neutral. If this was true, it was a bit of luck he should ride with a light hand on the reins.

"Don't rightly know," he replied. "I don't do the thrall thing – never had the knack. I've heard of people who get a kick out of having vamps feed off 'em, but I never met one before."

Few of his meals had lived long enough to tell him how much of a 'kick' they were getting out of being eaten, but Riley didn't need to know that. "I wouldn't worry about it." You'll get over it fast enough, when all this is over."

Spike looked at the floor. When it was over – how it would end – was something he'd been trying not to think about. He was afraid to push Riley too far, by asking too much, too soon, but what if he left it too late? Who knew how long The Professor was going to want to keep him around?

As for what he'd just told the kid, about 'getting over it' – he hadn't the faintest idea whether that was true, but had decided to bluff. There was a definite danger that a clean-living boy like Riley would be scared off by the whole addiction scenario.

But Spike needn't have worried. Without a detectable trace of irony, Riley – apparently taking him at his word – simply replied, "Thanks, that's reassuring."

What Spike didn't know – wouldn't have believed – was that when Riley once again offered him his hand, and his blood, getting over it was the last thing he wanted.

 

**Night 5**

_"'It would have been better to come back at the same hour,' said the fox." _

Careful observation of the routines of the place was beginning to give Spike some idea of what time of day it was, and what to expect. Any chance he got to look at the wristwatch of someone passing his cell, he took. Any conversation on which he managed to listen in was analysed, and the information filed away for future reference.

For his efforts, he now knew at what times he could expect his 'diet' of four plastic cups of water per day to be delivered. The technicians invariably coloured the water with food dye – an unrealistic shade of red. Whether this was some kind of sick joke, or a genuine attempt to fool him, he wasn't sure, but when it was pushed through the bars, he drank it dutifully to avoid undue attention or punishment. He growled at the orderly just a little, so as not to stand out too much from the other vamps.

He knew when to expect to be darted, carted away on a trolley, x-rayed, examined and dumped unceremoniously back in his cell.

He knew that the effects of the anaesthetic lasted about an hour.

He knew what time to expect Riley Finn, too.

Because Riley Finn had told him.

There was a period of about two hours, between 2 and 4 am, when the night-duty staff took a quick nap, and pretty much no one else was about. At that time, Riley would come and open his veins.

That was the promise.

But Riley should have been here by now, and Spike was getting twitchy. Riley was his lifeline; his hope of escape. But so far, Riley hadn't gone anywhere near offering to get him out, and it was probably too soon to bring that up. Kid wasn't on the hook yet, not by a long chalk.

Spike waited, getting more anxious by the moment.

Maybe Riley was having second thoughts after all. He could have got scared when the idea that he might like getting bitten had sunk in. Or maybe he'd just decided not to take any more risks.

Couldn't really blame him.

Hardly knowing what to do with himself, Spike paced the short distance from one prison wall to the other, and back again, chewing on his fingernails and thumping his fist against the tiles at each turn.

When he heard a heavy and slightly irregular tread coming towards his cell, he knew at once that it wasn't the man he was waiting on. For all that he had good reason to want to see Riley and no one else, the sharp pang of disappointment took him by surprise.

That surprise was quickly replaced by suspicion when he saw that the steps belonged to an enemy: that git Forrest. The man was borderline drunk, and now he was working the lever that opened Spike's cell.

Alert to the possible opportunity to get the hell out of here, Spike mentally readied himself for action, and took a step back to give himself room to manoeuvre. But Forrest was armed with a hand-taser, and was not so drunk as to put himself in range. He stood back until the big bruiser who'd been with him the other day – the one who'd whacked Spike on the head – appeared at the front of the cell.

"Hey Forrest!" the newcomer hailed him. "Don't start without me, man!"

"Jay! As if I would!" Forrest feigned hurt at the very suggestion. "Wouldn't want to go near this freak without back-up."

Spike looked from one to the other, weighing his chances. Both soldiers were wearing the human equivalent of game-face. This didn't look promising. As coolly as he could manage he enquired, "More procedures, gentlemen?"

Then he was knocked flat on the ground, with a taser at his throat and Forrest was sitting astride his chest. Spike felt some of his knitting ribs crack. The wound in his guts was all different shades of agonising as the re-broken bones dug into damaged organs. He looked Forrest in the eye, and gasped out, between grunts of pain, "Shame … the token black in the script … had to be the villain of the piece."

The right side of his face exploded with pain as Forrest's fist smashed his head against the floor.

"Limey bastard! I'm gonna fill that pretty mouth of yours."

Forrest was undoing his fly with one hand; the taser was still in the other.

Spike struggled, his gorge rising. He was used to being abused by a better class of bully than these two amateurs; but he was too weak from his injuries to stand any chance of throwing Forrest off him.

Jay, who was kneeling by Spike's head, got out a cigarette, lit it, and held the burning tip near the corner of Spike's right eye. "You heard the man, pansy ass, suck his dick."

The cigarette smoke drifted across Spike's face. He closed his eyes and inhaled; the much-needed hit went straight to his spine. Then he blew the smoke into Forrest's face, and suggested helpfully, "Sod off."

The burn of the cigarette pressed to his temple made him yelp with pain.

"You _will_ suck his dick, faggot."

Forrest hauled Spike's head up by the hair, while Jay held the cigarette to the back of his neck to force him to stay in position, and burned him twice more as an incentive.

Wrenching his head away from Forrest's open fly, Spike dredged up a smirk from the pit of his humiliation. "So it's not true, what they say about bl–"

He choked back another cry as the burning tip of the cigarette was drawn across his cheek, leaving a scorched trail. He gritted his teeth, and Forrest yanked hard on his hair, trying to force him to comply.

"Take it, you stinkin' bloodsuckin' fag –"

There was a clang of a nightstick on metal, and Riley Finn was at the cell bars, his face like an angry Thunder God.

"Stand away from that prisoner NOW!"

~~

Jay thwacked William's head on the floor and stood up to attention. Forrest was hastily fastening his pants.

"What in God's name d'you think you're playing at?" Riley demanded.

"Just messin' around," Forest said, as he fastened his belt. "Bit of fun – what's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong?" Riley stalled for time while he decided how to handle the situation. "Stand up straight when you address your commanding officer, Forrest."

"Sir! Yes Sir!" Forrest looked straight ahead of him, expressionless: letting his machine-gun response show his displeasure at being reprimanded in front of the HST – and by Riley, of all people.

"I'll tell you what's wrong." Riley took a deep breath to calm himself, before firing off his rapidly-compiled mental list of infractions. "One – you're down in a restricted area when not on duty. Two – you're down here drunk, you could have endangered yourselves or others. Three – you're interfering with one of the experimental subjects. If you cause them stress you could bias the results."

That was a good one. He took another deep breath.

"Four, did you see this sign out here?"

"Sir! No! Sir!" Forrest remained stone-faced, but the feelings of betrayal that were coursing through him showed in every line of his body. He was almost vibrating with rage.

But so was Riley.

"The sign says, 'Water'. That's what this subject is supposed to be ingesting. Water." Riley hissed out an angry breath before adding, "Nowhere does it specify 'semen diluted fifty-fifty with alcohol.'"

~~

The look of unadulterated contempt on Riley's face made Forrest's guts knot up. He'd thought they were buddies. But apparently, for some reason, that didn't signify any more. Forrest looked at the floor.

~~

"Five, you are sick bastards. Now get out of here, both of you, before I report you. And if I see either of you down here again without a good reason, I'll have you busted down to Private. Is that clear?"

"Yes Sir, as crystal Sir," Jay muttered.

"Forrest?"

"Clear, Sir."

Forrest put a sarcastic emphasis to the 'Sir' that Riley didn't like, but he couldn't quite summon the authority to pull Forrest up on it.

"Fine. You're dismissed."

Riley watched them go, glaring at their retreating backs and daring them to even think about the fact that their commanding officer wasn't leaving the basement with them. At last, the lift doors closed on Forrest and Jay.

Riley turned to William. Trying to put on a brave show, the prisoner had managed to get to his feet, but he was obviously thoroughly shaken-up: standing like he had been hung on a coat-hanger lop-sided.

"I'm very sorry about what happened here tonight," Riley said, hoping very much that William would believe him.

~~

Affecting indifference, Spike sniffed, spat on his hand and rubbed the burns on the nape of his neck. Almost too quietly for Riley to hear, he replied, "Not your fault."

"I'm their commanding officer," Riley insisted. "The buck stops here."

"That's a fine sentiment," Spike said, pursing his lips.

"May I come in?"

Spike would have laughed, had he not seen that Finn was – as usual – deadly serious. He was politely requesting admittance to Spike's 'home'. Spike blinked and tilted his head. "Be my guest. Sorry I can't offer you a cuppa."

Riley entered the cell, and then glanced nervously at his watch. "Sorry I'm late."

"Didn't notice."

Spike's lie was less than convincing and he knew it. He tried to pull his shoulders back, but gave it up as a bad job when bright points of pain sparked all through his torso.

"Had they been here long?" Riley asked anxiously. "How badly did they hurt you?"

Spike managed a shrug, then winced and wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to stop his guts from screaming.

Riley took a step towards him, then another, into his space, as if irresistibly drawn there. Tentatively he reached to touch Spike's face.

Spike flinched away. He could already feel an ugly contusion beginning to bloom where his right cheekbone had been smashed into the floor.

Riley had seen it, and was shaking his head, his brow creased with worry. "This should never happen," he said. The man reached out to touch him again, taking extra care on the injured side, and Spike closed his eyes, feeling compelled to move into the touch, it was so gentle. Then Riley took Spike's face in both his hands, and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Spike's stomach did a flip. He pulled back – not quite believing – then moved in, accepting Riley's lips on his.

It was like nothing he had ever felt. In that moment, Spike realised that he had never been kissed by a human before this day. The Serpent's Kiss had been his first. No one had ever kissed William, not this way. This was … wonderful; respectful; chaste; demanding nothing but that he be kissed and soothed.

As though he were someone worth taking the time not to damage.

As he lost himself – buried himself in the kiss – tears came: tears that mourned for William, and the love he'd never had.

~~

Riley felt the wetness on his face, and broke away, fearing that he was the cause of the tears. He looked searchingly into the impossibly azure eyes; kissed them; saw the cigarette burns, and kissed the charred flesh. He was so full of anger and sorrow that he thought he might break apart.

Then William was pushing against him, weakly struggling free, turning away and dragging a forearm across his eyes. "Well …" he said, his voice unsteady. "Riley Finn, Vampire Whisperer."

"I'm sorry if I …" Riley trailed off, fearing he might have gone too far – made things even worse for the prisoner by taking advantage of his vulnerability.

William turned back to face him. "No, it's … thanks." Trying to retrieve a few scraps of dignity, he kicked one booted toe against the floor, and said, "Better get out of the cell now. Orderly will be doing his rounds soon."

Both of them knew that there was plenty of time left, but Riley got it; the guy needed time to regroup. He backed off, but then remembered why he had come here, and awkwardly offered the half-healed cut on his hand.

"Here. You should take something to repair the damage my 'friends' have done to you." He loaded the word 'friends' with undisguised loathing.

William nodded briefly. He took Riley's hand in both of his, and gently massaged it while he drew blood. His eyes were closed; he clasped Riley's hand like it was a sacred vessel, and Riley had never felt so totally accepted; wanted.

This vampire trusted him.

His pulse took its rhythm from the irresistible draw on his blood system as William fed. It was mesmerising, sensual. He didn't want it ever to end.

At last – and too soon – the fangs were withdrawn. William opened his golden eyes, and in a primal expression of gratitude, brushed his ridged brow against the soft skin on the inside of Riley's forearm and wrist.

Riley thought he might come where he stood.


	3. A Promise is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike's mind turns to the problem of escape.

**Day 6**

_"'This flower is a very complex creature …'"_

There was plenty of time to think when you were locked up. Spike was trying to make use of it to set out his cards in order, but he didn't have much in the hand he'd been dealt. Trapped underground and surrounded by trained men with superior firepower, he was presumably being kept alive only until he ran out of organs for Maggie Walsh to extract. So far as he could work out, he only had one ace: Riley Finn had the hots for him.

That was good; very good.

Not good enough though.

Not yet.

Riley's passing infatuation would have to be upgraded to a full-blown obsession if Spike expected him to compromise his position so far as to help him escape. But as Spike racked his brains as to how to increase his hold over the boy, he realised that he hadn't the foggiest idea how to go about it.

As a human he'd never had any luck with the young ladies of his time, and men had been things to be avoided. It would never have even crossed young William's mind to have courted another man.

He snorted at his brain's archaic choice of phrasing.

Except when Angelus was claiming sire's privileges, he'd been with Drusilla since he'd been turned; the skills he'd needed to cope with _her_ had been rather specialised. Come to think of it, most of what he knew about relationships, at least first-hand rather than off the telly, he'd learned from Darla, Angelus, and Drusilla. "Well, that's bloody useful Spike, if Riley Finn happens to be a snooty bitch, a psychopath, or completely barmy."

He was muttering to himself.

That wasn't a good sign.

Restless, and confused as hell, he took to pacing instead.

What would a man like Riley Finn want from him?

Forrest was a man, and what _he'd_ wanted was pretty clear. Men liked sex, didn't they? That was a given. Sex and power.

But Iowa Boy hadn't pressed his advantage last night, even though he could have.

A voice in Spike's head was telling him that sex was not that high on Riley's list of priorities; that he didn't just go round snogging prisoners willy-nilly. So the kiss – _**that kiss**_ – had to have meant something different; something more. That's what the voice said.

But Spike shut that voice in a little white tiled cell all of its own. He was afraid to listen to it and even more afraid to let himself believe it.

What happened last night had been … well, Spike didn't know what it had been.

He'd taken comfort where it was offered, was all. A bloke in his dire situation could hardly be blamed for that.

But Spike had never been very good at self-deception.

Since last night, he'd wanted to kiss Riley Finn again. Wanted it – needed it – almost as much as he needed blood. His lips felt tender with the anticipation of it. Hoping with every tense fibre and damaged sinew that Riley was feeling like this as well, Spike stubbornly refused to acknowledge that hope.

It was pathetic; forlorn.

It must be.

He looked down at himself in disgust. In a worse state than China, he was. Not much of a catch at all, and vampire senses not always being a blessing, Spike was very much aware that he wasn't just physically ruined; he stank. Lack of soap and water wasn't usually a problem for vampires, but the dried blood, pus, guts and other sundries on his body, his clothes – even in his hair – couldn't be much of a turn-on, and there was no hope of a hot shower or fresh gear in the offing. He supposed he should be grateful they'd left him most of his own stuff, not put him in some humiliating bare-arsed hospital gown.

But it was worrying, given his need to keep Riley onside.

He did have one idea in his head: one plan that might help him get further under Riley's skin without having to get so close that his poor state of hygiene would put the bloke off. It was probably a bad plan. Every plan he came up with seemed to be going off the scale of wrongness lately. Even if Riley did decide to help him, Spike was beginning to doubt that he would get out of Belsen alive.

Had to try though.

He pulled on his tee shirt to cover the wound, raked his fucked-up nails through his hair in a vague attempt to appear presentable, and waited for night.

 

**Night 6**

_"'On my planet I had a flower; she always was the first to speak …'" _

Riley didn't want any more surprises, so he made sure to be there promptly when the orderly went off duty. But when he arrived at the front of William's cell, his heart lurched. William was waiting for him by the bars: and on his knees. Jesus! Maybe this guy really did read minds.

The vampire – Riley had a hard time remembering that this _was_ a vampire – looked up at him, tilting his head in a way Riley was beginning to recognise.

"Thank you," was all William said.

"What for?" Riley asked, more than a little on edge.

"Keeping me alive."

Riley shuffled uncomfortably. "I'm just trying to do the right thing."

Slowly, William brushed his left cheek up and down against the bars at the level of Riley's hips. He tongued his teeth in a most provocative manner, and in a low voice he said, "Could do something for you in return … I want to."

And even though Riley had hardly been able to get the idea out of his head since the first day, he was alarmed at the candour of the offer. He took a step away from the bars. "That won't be necessary," he said quickly, not giving himself a chance to change his mind.

And just for a moment, William looked completely at a loss; disappointed. Then he seemed to compose himself. "Well, perhaps I can do something for both of us …" he said.

The words, "Like what?" had escaped from Riley's mouth before he could stop them. He bit his lip anxiously, wondering what Pandora's Box he had opened.

"You'll see."

His heart racing, Riley watched as William raised himself elegantly from the floor and slouched against the back wall of the cell like a hustler on a street corner. The top buttons of William's fly were already undone, and William was sliding his hand inside, closing his eyes as he began to work his hand languidly up and down his length.

Riley's eyes widened. He murmured softly, "Oh God …"

The last thing Riley wanted was to see an imprisoned man debase himself. It was unnecessary, and it was wrong; and yet he was still watching. He told himself that he just didn't know how to stop this ride and get off without causing even more offence, but part of him, a part he wasn't very comfortable with, wanted to stay on the ghost train and see where it took him. He shook his head and backed away, raising a hand to his mouth to worry at a quick on his thumb.

~~

As plans went, offering a man a blow-job had hardly seemed like Napoleon's invasion of Russia; but somehow Spike hadn't even been able to pull that off. So this was Plan B. Spike hadn't expected to need a Plan B, and this was all he could come up with on the fly.

You could say what you wanted about Angelus: he might be – no, he _**was **_– the biggest bastard ever existed, but skills learned at his hands and at his feet always proved useful sooner or later. Angelus had liked to let someone else do the work, and watch without being observed. It was a power thing. It seemed appropriate, now that Spike was once again at someone else's mercy, that he fall back on the pre-show Angelus had enjoyed back in the day.

Spike let a soft sigh escape him as he tended to himself.

Opening his peripheral senses, he concentrated on matching time – his casual stroking of himself and his own unneeded breaths – to Riley's very deep but infrequent ones. That was fine. Riley kept forgetting he needed oxygen; that gave Spike confidence, and if it meant taking longer to bring himself off, that too, was fine and dandy. He hadn't had the heart to get himself off since he'd been brought here, and he was good and ready for it; but this wasn't about satisfaction: not for him.

~~

Riley could only watch, mesmerised. William must be some kind of magician who'd used all his art to ensnare him; string him up between the hum of the generator in the background, the lazy, rhythmic movements of his hand, and the breaths that were almost sighs. He was just a puppet and William was pulling the strings. Every time William stroked himself, he felt his hips rock forward in time with the movement. He was suspended in a hypnotic bubble where this was all that mattered; all he could want.

Then William deftly flicked open another few buttons, freeing his cock.

Riley caught his breath. He tried to look elsewhere; he failed.

It was like some dream, one of his sick fantasies: William, his prisoner, handling himself – touching himself – just for him. It made him feel messed-up inside, so messed-up that he didn't even care how messed-up he was, because this wasn't him; couldn't be real.

His focus was locked on the stark, monochrome silhouette in the white cell, and he knew that William knew he was watching every move he made. A blush of shameful voyeuristic desire went coursing through Riley's body, and when William threw his free arm across his eyes, it deflected that heat back, sending a jolt of fire to Riley's groin.

Still stroking and teasing himself the while, William drew his arm across his face, and began mouthing, mauling and sucking on his right thumb, his elbow pointing theatrically out away from his body in an attitude of clinical decadence.

Then Riley saw William steal a fleeting, anxious glance at him, and suddenly this was real, because how desperate must a man be – how scared? What must William be going through to have been brought to this? Riley made a slight sound in his throat – a gasp of arousal, and of sympathy – and took two sleep-walking steps towards the bars.

They were in this together now.

~~

Spike could feel Riley's consent hanging between them in the air.

Riley's astonished breaths, shallow and apprehensive, and loud enough to be heard above the generator, were keeping time with the gradually increasing pace of his own efforts. The air was heavy with the scent of Riley's perspiration, laden with sex and anxiety. He heard a movement, and the sound of a zipper scraping on a metal surface. Riley was pressing himself – rubbing himself – against the bars, and whimpering softly.

That was the signal to go, and Spike jacked himself hard and selfishly, holding nothing back, letting everything he was feeling – fear and shame and desire – show on his face as he came, hard and crying out, wantonly splattering the tiles with jism.

He heard Riley's rasping intake of breath; felt a shudder run through them both as though they were touching; sighed deeply and carried on emptying himself into the air. He let his lashes flutter dreamily.

Then he turned and opened his eyes to see Riley gripping the bars of the cell, as though he were the one incarcerated: his eyes wide and stunned in his open, honest face.

~~

Riley was shocked, less at what he'd seen than at himself, for staying to watch the performance. He swallowed, pushed himself away from the bars and backed away. He wanted to be elsewhere, he really did. But if at that moment, William had cordially invited him into the cell and given him leave to lick his spunk off the walls, he would have done it without question.

William regarded him with lazy, hooded eyes and said quietly, "I can do you just as pretty."

But now Riley had seen behind the mask, there was no way …

He swallowed again and shook his head vigorously. "No. Please. I mean, thanks for the offer, but I can't. It wouldn't be right."

~~

The naïve incongruity of Riley's statement abruptly jerked Spike out of the afterglow. Feeling something between amusement and awe, he raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be **_right?_**" he said.

"No. You're a prisoner. I don't want to take advantage."

Spike made a show of giving the point serious consideration. "So … it's not right to accept a helping hand, freely offered, but it's okay to lock me away, cut me up and keep bits of me in jars."

Riley looked confused. "No. I don't know. I couldn't … I can't do anything about that. You got caught."

"It's funny, in a way …" Spike went on in contemplative mode. "They caught me once before; wanted to use me for some kind of eugenics research. I swore then that they'd never get me. And yet here I am."

"'They'? You mean us? 'The Initiative'?"

"Oh, is that what you call this place?" Spike said. "No, it was some other bunch of Nazis: the original and best; accept no substitutes."

"Wait a minute. We're not Nazis!" Riley blurted.

"That right?" Spike shot Riley a penetrating look.

"We're just trying to protect the public," Riley asserted, sounding less than convinced.

"Why not just kill me then, and be done with it?" Spike challenged him. "Be a lot quicker and safer than all this disembowelling malarkey."

Riley didn't have an answer to that. Then what Spike had said earlier must have percolated through to his brain. "Did you say the original Nazis captured you?"

"That's right."

"So … I don't mean to be rude, but – how old are you? I mean, how long have you been a vampire?"

Spike considered. His sense of self-preservation was sounding Yellow Alert. It would be better not to tell Riley too much about his past. If Riley knew how old he was, the kid might feel threatened; manipulated; think Spike a bit of a cradle-snatcher. And if the Initiative had access to information about his past, and Riley did some digging …

Riley was still waiting in wide-eyed fascination for his answer, and unaccountably, Spike found it very hard to lie to that face.

"I was turned in 1880."

Spike waited tensely for a reaction, watching the boy from under his lashes. God, how he wished he could learn to keep his mouth shut. But he never could. He silently berated himself for his addiction to telling it how it is.

And here it came – the question he hadn't wanted Riley to think of.

"And how often do you have to eat … to kill?"

This time, Spike braced himself to lie. Well, not so much lie as round down a little. It would have been better never to have mentioned the damn Nazis. "Oh, say, about once or twice a week." He watched; saw the wheels turn in Riley's head. Clearly there were calculations going on.

Riley took a few gulps of air. Bloke looked like he might be about to have a heart attack. In a voice devoid of apparent emotion, Riley said, "You've killed at least six thousand people."

Against his better judgement Spike was actually engaged in the argument now, and felt an absurd need to justify himself. "Doing your species a favour I reckon – culling out those too stupid to keep out of dark alleys."

But Riley was backing away from the bars, shaking his head, his face white with shock. "You're a mass murderer."

Spike bridled. "Now wait a minute. What did you have for lunch today?"

Riley shook his head. "I know where this is going, so don't even think about it. The animals we eat live decent lives and are killed humanely."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, they get killed humanely. Sure they do – if you live somewhere over the rainbow." He shook his head. "I've lived a long time, seen a lot of scenes of slaughter. Caused a few of them. Most of 'em can't hold a candle to the hell humans create to exploit those furry animals they claim to be so fond of."

He paced the cell, turning his face away from Riley, who just stood dumbfounded.

Spike sniffed, then muttered, "They cut my bloody dog up, the bastards. Left her to die all cut open, just like your precious Professor did to me." His voice beginning to crack with emotion, he managed to add, "So don't give me any 'humane' bullshit. At least vamps don't have a choice. We have to have blood. You don't."

~~

Riley didn't reply. He was still in shock at the scale of the killing William must have done. And he'd just been watching the guy masturbate, and getting off on it. What the hell was going on? He needed to get a grip.

As he flung away from the cell, William came back to the bars. "Riley, wait –"

But Riley was vexed that he had allowed himself to be out-argued by a creature of the night. He went up the stairs two at a time to the higher levels, leaving William staring after him, alone and helpless.

 

** _"Grown-ups are like that …"_ **

Agent Finn had seemed distracted over the past few days, and Maggie Walsh didn't like it. She wanted _all_ her boys focussed on their assigned tasks, but most especially, she wanted Riley Finn's total dedication. It wasn't just that Riley had been less attentive than usual during briefings; there was a general feeling of uneasiness within the platoon. Someone's feathers had been ruffled.

It wasn't surprising there were tensions. They were all living a double life, which was bound to be exhausting. She herself hadn't had more than four hours sleep per night for years. While she didn't normally feel the lack, she wondered if that was why – even after a short nap and a cup of coffee so strong you could stand a flagpole up in it – some of these interim results from the regeneration experiment weren't making any sense to her tired eyes. In the bank of monitors above her head, her multiple reflections – yes, despite what her TAs said behind her back, she _did_ have a reflection – were looking more haggard than usual.

Oh well. Beauty was a notoriously fleeting attribute, and much overrated.

She flicked a switch on the console to check back on Riley's activities, and clicked her tongue in vexation when she found that – once again – his bed was empty at a time when she knew he was not on duty. She checked the time; it was 2:15 am. He must have a girlfriend on campus, damn him. Her teeth were clenched. She unclenched them, and took a deep breath.

Who was she kidding? Her work was what mattered, not Riley's peccadilloes. He would forget all about these minor distractions when her project came to fruition; she would see to that.

She had been a young woman when she had conceived her brain-child: a project to create the perfect warrior, by artificially combining human intelligence with the strength and focus of a demon. Of course, she'd later discovered that she hadn't been the first to think of it – but that just gave her a head start. Ironic, that she was now too unattractive – worn out by her work – to reap the potential sexual benefits.

She broke off from her reverie, and after flipping through the pages of the draft report once again, decided to go and check the basement cells for herself. It was always possible that ambiguous diet labels had been displayed, or that the subjects' numbers had been mixed up.

Before she left, she glanced at the screen once more, and was curious to see that Riley was back in his room. By her calculations he had been gone less than an hour. Perhaps his libido was being affected by the formula.

She watched intently as Riley paced his room for a few moments, running his hands through his hair in an agitated manner, and making slight involuntary movements with his hands, as though discussing something with an invisible opponent.

Maggie made a mental note to check on his dosage. Perhaps she was trying to move too fast. An extra 'routine' medical and psych test would have to be scheduled for the entire platoon so that she could check up on her boy.

For once, tiredness overruled duty – the basement cells could wait until tomorrow. Then she would ask Dr Angleman to check that everything was as it should be. It seemed that she had something of greater importance to worry about.

 

** _"'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.'" _ **

As he listened to Riley's retreating footsteps, Spike released a low despairing moan, and rested his forehead against the wall.

William the Bloody Fool: that's what he was.

He'd let his emotions rule his actions, like always; let himself get worked-up over nothing. In doing so, he'd wasted any advantage he might have got from the first part of Riley's visit, though even that looked like it might have been a bit too much for Riley, and worse – much worse than that: he'd argued himself out of today's take-out, and missed an opportunity to mention the 'escape' word.

Absurdly, he also felt sad that he'd upset the Finn boy. Kid was risking his career – maybe even his life – coming down here and offering his blood to keep a stranger alive, and what had he got for his pains? Nothing but a lecture, and a boatload of frustration.

Spike slid down the wall in the corner and rested his head in his hands.

Well, that was it.

Riley wouldn't come back now; why should he?

Spike raised his head to look to the heavens in despair, but saw only more sterile white tiles. The future looked red and white and full of sharp implements. He wanted to heave. He wanted to howl. He didn't know how much time was passing; it seemed elastic, every second stretching out into an eternity of self-reproach.

Didn't matter anyway. A second, a week: whatever. He was a dead man walking, watching impotently as the bloody cavalry galloped away from him and over the far horizon.

As it sank in – how completely he'd been depending on Riley and how badly he'd screwed up – he felt the fear building inside him like a volcano about to blow its top. He felt like flinging himself from one wall of his small prison to the other, but that would probably be very painful and almost certainly get him put down like a mad dog. Instead, he sat in a tight knot in the corner, biting down on his knuckles and rocking himself, and huffing out each panicked breath through his nose.

But there was only so much of that you could do without looking ridiculous, even to yourself. Not seeing any point in being uncomfortable as well as wretched, he stretched out a little, rolling his head from side to side to try and loosen the tension in his neck.

That was when Spike noticed a movement outside the cell, and the jolt it gave him nearly started his heart beating.

Riley had silently appeared at the bars once more. A reluctant angel, he was offering a shaking hand, but looking away down the corridor, ostensibly to keep watch. All he said was, "You'll have to be quick – there's only a few minutes before shift change."

Nearly fainting with relief, Spike was at the bars in a second. "Thanks for coming back," he said quickly. He wished with all his heart that Riley could stand to look at him – just once – but beggars couldn't be choosers, so he stooped to Riley's hand and sank his fangs in, taking a few precious mouthfuls.

Riley's whole body was pulsing with residual lust and restrained anger, and – today – the blood tasted bitter; but that didn't make it any less potent. When he'd taken just enough, Spike cleaned the ragged cut with his tongue, then pressed a kiss on the mound of Venus.

His spontaneous gesture of gratitude – of fealty – drew a shocked moan from Riley.

"You are a good man, Riley Finn," Spike said, knowing the truth of it in his very bones.

Recovering, Riley shook his head and looked away.

"I don't know what I am any more," he said.

Then he rapidly made his departure.

 

**Day 7**

_"'It has done me good,' said the fox, 'because of the colour of the wheat fields.'" _

Spike slept for most of the next day.

He dreamed he was struggling through a swamp. He had a collection of items he had to keep safe: his baggage. He wasn't doing very well at it. He'd already lost his spectacles.

Riley was there too, but Spike was leading the way.

There was a difficult place up ahead, where the gaps between the clumps and tussocks that were safe to stand on, were too wide to jump. He meant to trick Riley into putting his foot in the wrong place – then he would be able to use his body as a bridge. But when he got there, he thought he saw Angelus' face under the water, among the faces of those who'd died there.

The shock made him miss his footing. He slipped and lost hold of his travelling bag and his umbrella. He found himself being sucked down and started to panic, floundering in the quicksand. Angelus was grasping his leg, he was being dragged under.

Then there was Riley, offering his hand, offering to get him out, but the hand was covered in razor wire and Spike was afraid to take hold of it.

He was dragged under.

He was surrounded not by water or mud, but by something sticky and pliant. He was caught in a spider's web, and the more he struggled to get free, the more entangled he became. Again, he panicked. The web seemed to be getting thicker all the time; it was choking him. But it didn't belong to some monster spider, it was coming from his own mouth.

Riley was caught in it too. They were pressed up against each other, both breathing hard and struggling against the bonds. Riley had a knife; he was cutting himself free, but he didn't move away as Spike was expecting. He reached into his pocket, took out a pair of spectacles and placed them on Spike's face.

"You should be able to see more clearly now," Riley said.

What he saw astounded him.

And when he woke in a world of metal and glass, although he couldn't remember what it was he had seen, he felt unaccountably warm and safe.

 

**Night 7**

_"I felt the need of protecting him, as if he were a flame that might be extinguished by a little puff of wind …"_

Somehow, Riley hadn't managed to find the time to check on William during the day. Though it was true that he'd been getting behind with his 'real' work as a TA, and Professor Walsh had unexpectedly given him a whole new pile of papers to mark, he still felt badly about it.

But last night had been disturbing: the discussion no less than the … other stuff that had gone before. He didn't know what to think any more: about William; about himself; about the Initiative. Had he hitched his wagon to the wrong star? It wasn't a good thought. And no one would really call him a Nazi … would they?

His stomach felt like it had been on spin cycle all day. What in God's name was he going to do about this prisoner? Thoughts ran in his brain like rats in a maze, going nowhere fast. He'd been staring at the same page of a paper on the work of B.F.Skinner for the last five minutes without being able to make sense of a single word, and that wasn't helping anyone.

Riley wasn't used to equivocating. It wasn't his way. Get the job done: that was what he was good at.

But what if the job wasn't worth doing?

What if it was a bad job?

It hardly bore thinking about; so for now, he decided not to think about it. He **_had_** to get through this pile of papers, and he intended to get it done before 2 am, so he made himself a cup of coffee, and settled himself back down to the task in hand.

~~

A while later, Riley was disturbed to hear infantile giggling coming from just outside his room, followed by 'Shh!' 'Cut it out!' and other imprecations to be quiet. He looked up from his marking and glanced at the clock, then jumped up in panic. Only an hour ago he had been jittery – wait for the time when the orderly would go off duty – but since then, he'd been concentrating so hard that he'd gotten lost in his work, and now he was a whole quarter of an hour late.

A sick feeling washed over him. He hadn't intended to make William wait like that. It must look like he wanted to punish the poor guy for last night; remind of how vulnerable he was – how powerless.

It wasn't fair.

As Riley flung open his door, he saw Forrest and Kevin retreating down the corridor, pointing children's toy guns at each other. Forrest had evidently found a new playmate; he let loose a volley of liquid at Kevin, who covered his face in mock-terror, squealing, "No! Not the face! Not my gorgeous face! It burns!"

Doing the math, Riley whipped out of his room. He didn't stop to question them, but headed, grim-faced, for the elevators. Though he'd never had confirmation of the effect of holy water on vampires, he feared the worst.

When the electronic security voice said, "Vocal Identification Required," Riley replied almost as automatically, "William Bennett", and as the car descended and his anxiety mounted, he clenched and unclenched his fists and shook his head at himself for leaving William alone for so long.

His heart pounding, he moved swiftly to the cell labelled 'Water', but when he got there, he had to pause and brace himself. He was afraid of what he might see; afraid to discover what the men he used to think of as friends might be capable of.

Then the sound of a pained intake of breath from inside the cell brought him to the front of the bars. William trying to examine the outside of his forearms, but now he stopped his contortions and looked up, and Riley breathed deeply with relief.

The prisoner had suffered what looked like acid burns, obviously from holy water, across his left cheek, but least his tormentors had missed his eyes, if only by a few millimetres. Those eyes were now dark with pain. There was searing across William's forearms. He must have thrown them up to defend his face. His tee-shirt lay in a sodden heap in the corner, and there was mottling across his stomach and chest from where the holy water had soaked through. Most of the new skin over the operation site was now burned off, leaving the flesh raw.

"How can I help?" Riley asked with quiet urgency.

William shot a nervous glance at him, and with a catch in his voice said simply, "Get me out of here?"

The plea pierced Riley's heart, but he tried to keep it together – keep his head. "I mean now, with those burns."

William looked down at the red and pink relief map the holy water had made of his torso. "What, these little things?" he said, failing to hide the pain with studied casualness. "I've had worse."

"Come on William, what can I do? Tell me –"

"Some unblessed water would be a start."

Riley went to the sink, soaked a towel and passed it through the bars, then went back for another. "Forrest and Kevin did this to you," he stated furiously. "And I let it happen. If I'd been on time –"

"If you'd been on time they might have caught you down here 'compromising the experimental protocols'," William said bitterly.

He was right, of course. Looked at like that, they'd had a lucky escape, but it didn't make Riley feel any better about it.

"Forrest's going to pay for this," Riley said.

William shrugged. "Can't blame the bloke for bein' jealous over you."

Riley's mouth fell open. "What? What are you suggesting?"

Gingerly, William swabbed his burns with the wet towel. "He said you wouldn't think I was so pretty when he'd finished with me. Sounds like a classic case of jealousy to me, but what do I know?" He stopped swabbing to cast a dispirited glance at Riley. "Anyway, you shouldn't get yourself into any trouble on my account. I'm used to this kind of thing."

Riley boggled. "Used to it?"

"Yeah, old girlfriend, Drusilla: she used to like playing a little game with holy water. 'God's tears' she called it. Used to say God was cryin' over all our wicked deeds." He sighed and went back to dabbing tentatively at the burns. "Nutty as a fruitcake of course."

Riley shifted uncomfortably at the mental image. "That's completely different and you know it. If you consented ..."

William looked up from what he was doing, head tilted like a bird, interested and surprised that Riley appreciated the distinction. "Yes, it was." He nudged the soaking tee-shirt over to the bars with his boot.

Riley picked it up and started rinsing it over the sink with obsessive thoroughness. He was still preoccupied with his task when the 64 million dollar question came again.

"So what about it, Finn?" Getting me out, that is?"

It was the second time of asking, and William's tone was blank and hopeless – expecting polite refusal.

Riley's shoulders tensed.

Into Riley's silence, William went on, "'Cos, I can't take this for much longer. Vampires – we can live forever, barring accidents with picket fences. But I don't much fancy still bein' in this cell a hundred years from now, getting gutted and probed and prodded, and used for entertainin' the troops ..."

William seemed calm about it now: almost analytical, but Riley was in the grip of mental paralysis. All he knew he was capable of doing at this moment, was running water over a worn tee-shirt, rinsing it, wringing it out, then rinsing it again. So that was what he was going to do. His hands were going red from the effort.

"Maybe this is how you like it," William went on, his voice tinged with sad defiance, challenging Riley to deny it; daring him to let it be so. "Keeping me trapped in here, the little helpless victim. Lettin' me feed off you, so I'll be all dependant. So that every now and then you can think about me down here, getting myself in a state, wondering if tonight's the night you'll forget all about your pet vampire – have something better to do." The voice dropped lower. "Maybe that gives you a thrill?"

** _"No!"_ **

Riley slapped the wet garment into the sink, and ran his wet hands through his hair. That wasn't it, was it? It couldn't be.

"This – The Initiative – it's my life, my work. This is hard for me."

This time William's words only held one meaning when he said, "It's hard for me too."

Riley was racked. Could he organise an escape? Should he? What would it cost him? When he summoned up the courage to turn round – to see the scars and wounds on the prisoner – he decided that the only acceptable answer was 'who the hell cares what it costs?'

As Riley came to his decision, and passed the tee-shirt back through the bars, William looked him in the eye and said flatly, "Because if you can't, or won't get me out, you might as well stop the emergency food program." He dropped the towel he'd been using and kicked it towards the bars.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm bloody grateful and all. For what you've done for me. But I'd rather starve myself than let this go on." William started struggling into the damp tee-shirt, momentarily hiding his face. "I'd die eventually. I've worked it out. Probably take a few months ..." He paused as his head came through the neck of the tee, and glanced at Riley, adding, with gallows humour "… before I lost enough cartilage for my head to fall off –"

"God, don't say that." Riley grimaced at the image. "I want to get you out," he said, his desire gaining substance and credibility as it hit the airwaves. "I do. I just can't see how at the moment. The upper floor is manned 24/7. I'd never get you anywhere near ground level without two or three people challenging me, and all the tunnels have sentries posted."

Devoid now of props, William took to picking and worrying at what was left of his nail varnish. "How about a disguise?" he suggested. "Put me in an army uniform; you must have a spare."

"Not a chance of that working." Riley was emphatic. "Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

William smiled dryly, and replied, "I've looked, but no one looks back."

Riley smacked his own forehead. "Sorry, of course. But you have to know you're pretty distinctive. Everyone here already knows you, or knows of you, especially since Forrest took against you. Fatigues and a flak jacket aren't going to fool anyone."

William's disheartened expression prompted Riley to reassurance he hoped he could deliver on. "But don't worry, I'll think of something. I promise."

Though this seemed to lift his spirits a little, a look of knowing sadness ghosted across William's face. "I've experienced Sunnydale Promises before. Made a few of 'em myself. They usually don't turn out to be worth a whole lot."

Riley shook his head gravely. "This is an Iowa Promise."

This time Riley was rewarded with a half-smile, as William said warmly: "Guess I'll have to have faith in one of those."

 

** _"'And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky!'"_ **

Spike knew all about bullshit; he'd produced a fair amount of it himself.

Hang around in demon bars for long and you got a bellyful of it: posturing, bragging, threats, shaggy-dragon stories, macho troll-tossing and mucus-hurling contests; you name it, he'd heard it or seen it, or knew a man who had.

He wasn't an idiot.

Well, most of the time ...

He knew tall tales and rash promises when he heard them.

Riley Finn's promise to get him out of this hell: well, that wasn't one of them.

'Don't worry,' Riley had said. 'I'll think of something. I promise" – and Spike believed him without question.

If a bloke like Riley said he'd do something, he'd do it. If he promised to do something, he'd do it, or go to his death trying.

Spike's immediate response – muted and sceptical – hadn't done justice to what he'd been feeling, and it wasn't until Riley had gone that he'd felt it was safe to let himself think about what had just happened. He'd all but resigned himself to the possibility that the only way any part of him would get out of here was in a jar of formalin; but now he'd got what he most wanted: real hope of rescue.

As he let it sink in, it was as if every tendon in his body had come unstrung. He lay flat on his back on the tiles, gasping with relief, a song in praise of Iowa and all her sons in his heart, and a foolish grin plastered across his face.


	4. Spike's Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley is forced to act.

**Day 8**

_"Grown-ups love figures … Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything …"_

Maggie Walsh sighed and rubbed a vexed hand across her brow. "These results make no sense at all," she said, looking up from her clipboard at Dr Angleman. "You say the test subject number 4 – the one listed as Hostile Seventeen – was on the control diet, and yet he shows every sign of doing better than the other HSTs, even the one receiving whole human blood. Are you sure the orderlies know what they're doing? I presume they know the difference between blood and water." She smirked, telegraphing that one of her laboured jests was on the station platform, buying its ticket. "Blood's thicker."

Oblivious to her attempt at humour, Dr. Angleman was nodding vigorously.

"Yes, of course. However, one thing of which I wasn't aware until I happened to go down there early yesterday is that most of the subjects have been vomiting up some or all of their rations overnight. Probably a negative reaction to the anaesthesia. The cleaner has just been mopping it up each morning while the hostiles weren't in the cells, and no one has seen fit to inform me of the fact."

Maggie was quickly in a cold fury. "Do we even know which of the subjects has been vomiting, and how often?"

"I'm sorry Professor, but we don't," Angleman confessed. "It's most regrettable. All we do know is that Hostile Seventeen has not shown this reaction. They were most definite about that. He's the only one who – I'm sorry, _which_ – hasn't had to have its cell mopped down at all."

"Would they even notice if it _had_ been vomiting?" Maggie demanded in a scathing tone. "It wouldn't be very conspicuous if the subject had failed to keep down a diet of water now, would it?"

"No Professor, I suppose not." The Doctor was abject.

Maggie slammed the clipboard down on her desk. Her anger was partly with herself. Perhaps the additional funding she'd been given last year for security cameras should have been used to provide coverage of the basement cells. The spy cameras in the dorm rooms were proving spectacularly uninformative, and much less entertaining than she'd expected.

Wearily conceding defeat, she said, "Well, in the light of this new information, I see no alternative but to wipe the slate clean and start the testing process again."

~~

Riley was in the area; his ears had pricked up at the Professor's first mention of 'Hostile Seventeen', and he had immediately found 'operational reasons' to move closer to the conversation so that he could listen in.

Noticing Riley hovering near her desk, Maggie hailed him. "Agent Finn, would you be so kind as to organise the termination of the vampire test subjects in the basement cells for me? The whole cohort. Standard knockdown procedure followed by decapitation."

Fortunately for Riley, he was facing away from the Professor when these heart-stopping words were uttered. He switched on his 'professional soldier' expression, and although he hadn't read – or even seen – the report on the research, he improvised, "But don't you find the results of the tests intriguing, Professor?"

She looked at him as though he had suddenly grown horns. "How do you mean, Riley?"

His spirit quailed under her cold-blooded appraisal, and he hid his messed-up left hand in a pocket with affected nonchalance.

"Well, the way Hostile – Seventeen isn't it? The way his wounds seem to be healing, even without nourishment."

Riley marvelled at his own nerve in calling attention to the very phenomenon for which he was directly responsible. The way his pulse was racing, if the Professor had possessed vampire senses he would have been dead meat.

Maggie flipped through the report again, and frowned. "I hadn't actually noticed that. The tables I looked at were all comparative. Are you saying that Seventeen is showing actual improvement, rather than just doing better than the other three subjects? If so, it is extremely puzzling. Clearly this vampire is very resilient."  
With as much naïve keenness as he could muster – which was quite a lot – Riley said, "Well, that being so, shouldn't we find out why?"  
He was very much aware that he was treading dangerous waters; but if he could keep William alive for a little while longer, perhaps it would give him time to work out an escape plan. The words, 'if' and 'perhaps' chilled him. There could be no 'if' or 'perhaps' about it. He had to. The consequence of failure was something he couldn't bear to contemplate.

Maggie's gaze continued to pin him like a butterfly.

"I suppose we could," she said. "But it is entirely possible that there are factors at work related to the experimental protocol. Hostile Seventeen could be feeding from one of the vampires in the adjacent cells, or being given a share of their rations. Unlikely though it sounds, we have occasionally seen rudimentary examples of co-operation among HSTs. Test parameters failed to take that into account." She looked thoughtfully at her papers. "Housing them in adjacent cells was a serious mistake. I'd really prefer to start again, with new subjects, and a far stricter regime. More regular checks on the hostiles' activities."

Riley tried to keep the panic out of his voice when he said, "But we don't really know what happened. Perhaps Hostile Seventeen is some new kind of super-vampire that can survive on water – we'd need to know that, right?"

He wanted to bite his tongue; a 'super-vampire that can survive on water'? That sounded lame as soon as he'd said it.

Maggie looked at him with an expression of tolerant amusement. "Impossible," she assured him. "We must be doing something wrong and biasing the results. Either that or the creature is living off stored resources we don't fully understand. No. I want the subjects terminated."

"Yes Ma'am. I'll see to it." Riley turned away, swallowing to stop himself from being sick, his mind searching for options.

It was Dr. Angleman who came to his rescue, saying, "Er, Professor, if you don't mind, we may have another use for one of the vampires."

Riley felt like hugging him. He waited in suspense, hoping for a countermand to his most recent order.

"I've had a request from the FBI, channelled through our base in Nevada," Angleman continued. "They want the new behaviour modification implant you developed to be tested. They saw the schematics, and they'd like to try the chip on violent criminals, but they can't get FDA approval without further tests. They can't risk sanctioning the testing on human subjects in case the public find out, and they don't think that tests on rats and mice, or even monkeys, will really tell them enough, though they would be sufficient to cover them if anything goes wrong. They feel that a vampire – being naturally violent – would be an ideal model, because they'd be able to condition and interrogate it as though it were human."

"Well, this is very satisfying," Maggie said. "It just shows that what we're doing here does have a very real, practical application, despite what the doubters say." She looked into the middle-distance. "There might even be extra funding in it …"

Angleman broke into her reverie. "Well, anyway, they want us to perform the surgery. We have the chip and we have the facilities. And there aren't too many vampires wandering around loose in the Nevada desert either, whereas we happen to have some ready-to-hand."

Professor Walsh looked unconvinced. "Wouldn't a fresh test subject be better for that too?"

Trying hard not to sound too eager, Riley cut in. "Well, at least we know that Hostile Seventeen can take the multiple knockdowns. He – I mean it – would probably be the best one to use. Better than one we don't know anything about."

Was he was pushing a little too hard? Speaking a little too loudly? Luckily, Maggie didn't seem to notice anything odd about his tone. She just sighed and said, "Well, I leave it in Dr. Angleman's hands – he's had more contact with the test subjects than anyone. Do whatever you think best, Doctor."

"Well, I tend to agree with Agent Finn. He can dispose of all of them, except for Hostile Seventeen."

Riley turned away again to keep them from seeing the relief on his face; but they hadn't done putting him through the wringer yet.

"I'll take care of the surgery on Seventeen, first thing tomorrow," Angleman continued eagerly. "Then the subject will have to be moved back to the top level. This implant has to be put into the base of the skull. It's a delicate operation, so we'll need to monitor the subject closely to make sure it doesn't show any negative reactions before Nevada pick it up. They want it ASAP – something to do with the fiscal year – so they're sending an armoured truck for it tomorrow evening."

"Why don't we do the evaluation here?" Riley enquired, again a little more keenly than he'd intended. If William was going to be shipped out tomorrow it didn't leave him much time.

"We don't have the facilities," Anglemann said. "The subject will have to undergo operant conditioning, including intensive partial reinforcement, so that they can be sure the results are genuine. They won't want it to be able to fool the testers. We just don't have the right set-up for that here."

Not daring to push any harder, Riley saluted and backed away. "I'll have the terminations taken care of," he said.

There was no time to lose.

 

** _"'What does this mean?' I demanded. 'Why are you talking with snakes?'" _ **

Riley made his way swiftly through the storage section, picking up all the supplies he thought he'd need – and then some – and caching them in his many pockets. Then he went down to the basement.

It was daytime, so William was only half-expecting to see him; Riley's heart leapt to see how he seemed to light up when their eyes met. But William's expression soon changed to one of concern. Riley guessed that his own increased pulse rate must have told the vampire something was up.

He slid a full pack of human blood through the bars, and muttered urgently, "Escape plan. Drink this later, but keep the empty packet, and keep it hidden, you'll need it tomorrow. You're being moved to the upper cells in the morning –"

"Why's that then?" William interrupted him.

Riley looked around nervously; there was no one within earshot. He could afford to take a minute to explain a bit more, though there was a part of the explanation that he was dreading. He kept his voice low and – he hoped – calm. "They're planning on moving you to a facility in Nevada, early tomorrow evening. They'll want you docile, so they'll give you drugged blood. Pretend you've drunk it and act like you're out cold, use the empty pack as a decoy. When they get you out of the cell, you'll have the advantage of surprise."

William was listening so intently, Riley felt sure his very thoughts were being scrutinised, but it still unnerved him when William said simply, "And?"

"I'll do all I can to make sure you get a clear run at the exit. Try not to kill anyone as you go." He paused, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "If you do, it'll be on my conscience."

William dipped his head in agreement. "And?"

"And what?" Riley said, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt.

"You tell me. What's the catch Riley, why'm I being moved up and then out? What is it you're not telling me?"

Riley turned away. "They're putting a behaviour modification chip in your head."

"They're _**what?**_"

Then Riley had to spill. "It's some experimental thing, to stop criminals re-offending. They think it'll stop you killing." And this was the worst part. He took a deep breath. "I had to volunteer you for it."

William stared at him in stunned silence. The pain and betrayal in his eyes made Riley flinch as though he'd been struck.

Then William frowned, as though trying to work out an algebra problem. "Let's get this straight, because maybe I'm not hearing you right. You volunteered me. For _**experimental brain surgery?**_"

He was almost vibrating.

"And there's me thinkin' we were getting along quite well. Was it something I said?" William was clearly using all his powers to keep his tone civil, but it could still have dissolved metal.

Riley squirmed. "I had to. They were going to kill you otherwise. They were going to make me kill you. Along with –"

Just in time, Riley realised that his voice had risen with his emotion; the vampires in the other cells would be hearing every word. He couldn't help imagining what they would feel, if they heard what he was about to say; couldn't help showing a minimum of consideration, so he just indicated the other cells with a gesture.

Deflated, William scratched the back of his head. "You should have killed me," he said flatly. "What use is a vampire that can't feed?"

Riley considered; he hadn't had time to think about it. All he'd cared about was making sure William wasn't put down with the rest. "Well, couldn't you buy or – and I can't believe I'm saying this – steal blood from hospitals? Or – hey, what about animal blood? Does that work? You can buy that from a butcher."

William shocked him by bursting into hysterical laughter. "God's teeth! I truly am in hell aren't I? Condemned to follow in the Great Ponce's tiny footsteps in every respect!"

"The Great what?"

William ignored him. "What's next?" he demanded, pacing the cell and gesticulating at the air. "Gonna give me a soul, a terminal case of self-obsession and a big tub of hair gel? Or maybe a copy of the complete works of Jean-Paul Sartre and a diploma in brooding and Tai Chi from the University of Stupid Gits?"

Riley didn't know what to say. He hadn't the slightest idea what this confusing rant was about.

"God! Before I know it, I'll be dating Buffy!"

Finally – a word that Riley could latch onto. "Did you say Buffy?"

"Yeah, Buffy Summers. Lives round here, cute as a button and ten times as lethal."

Surprised, Riley said, "Yes, I know! She tried to brain me once with some psych textbooks."

But William hadn't heard him. Laughing mirthlessly, he stowed the pack of blood in his duster, and – still facing the back of the cell – raised a hand to wave farewell to Riley.

"Thanks, OK? I owe you one. Don't worry about showin' up tonight, this should do me fine." He patted the bag of blood in his pocket.

Feeling strangely disconnected, Riley turned to go. "I'll be back tonight with a map. You'll need to memorise the exit routes."

"Yeah, whatever, mate."

Baffled and distressed, Riley shook his head, turned on his heel and departed.

 

** _"My friend never explained anything to me." _ **

For the next few hours, Riley didn't know what to do with himself. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at the prisoner's enigmatic and disturbing reactions. William was clearly furious with him, but being completely at Riley's mercy, he must have been afraid to express how angry he really was.

It was upsetting.

Riley assisted the Professor in classes on automatic pilot, receiving some strange looks from the students, but managing not to draw Maggie's attention. When the Professor showed the students a teaching video about modifying the behaviour of rats and monkeys by giving them electric shocks, he had to leave the room, with a burning behind his eyes and a lump in his throat.

And there was still the termination of the other vampires in the basement to see to. He was dreading it, but didn't want to detail anyone else to do it in case they killed William as well, either in error or on purpose. He didn't even want to involve any of the medics qualified to use a blowpipe. During a break in the lecture schedule, he went to his room to find a couple of wooden tent-pegs he knew were lurking among his equipment. William had said that staking was merciful, hadn't he?

When Riley had first arrived at the Initiative, pulled out of Special Ops., he had innocently asked the Professor why stakes weren't standard issue for killing vampires. After all, they were cheap and easily portable. She had reacted with scorn. Primitive methods and superstitions had no place on this base. So he'd learned to kill vampires using grenades, flamethrowers, machine guns, surgical implements, chainsaws; even a garrotte. But he'd never used a stake before, and he'd only ever killed vampires in the field; never in cold blood.

He didn't know if he could do it.

Riley remembered all the vampires he'd killed before; the visuals began playing on a continuous loop in his head as he rummaged inefficiently through his camping gear, throwing items of kit around and behind him, making the kind of mess he usually hated. Finally he found what he'd been looking for, sat down on the edge of the bed, and got his knife out.

The feel and the weight of the knife in his hands steadied him a bit. It was trained into him. You didn't mess around with weapons – tried not to handle them when you were in an emotional state – so when you handled them, it was calming.

Well, sometimes it was.

He set to work.

A Bowie knife was not the best thing for whittling. As he worked the blunt end of the wood to sharpness, his thoughts started to swirl in again, awash with red-tinged visions of what he'd like to do to Forrest and Jay and Kevin with the stake he was fashioning. His work became more vigorous; even careless. He managed to get a reasonably sharp point on the makeshift stake, but then he blew it; slashed too wildly at it and broke the point off.

He cursed at himself.

That brought him back. He steadied himself and started work on the other tent peg; time he didn't mess it up.

Then he went about the grim task.

 

**_"'Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can.'" _**

'No need for Lucifer to fall, if he'd learn to keep his mouth shut …'

God, how Spike wished he could learn the trick of it. He paced his cell, in the grip of a crippling anxiety.

He'd dismissed Riley – dismissed him: with his back turned, with a wave of his hand, as if he were some minion. How could he have been so bloody stupid?

Surely he must have blown it.

And why?

For what?

If this implant could be put in, it could be got out again couldn't it?

He'd have found a way.

He'd got into a strop with Riley for nothing, and put his only hope of getting out of here at risk.

Spike tried to imagine how he would have felt; what he would do now, in Finn's place. Would leave himself to stew, that's what; leave himself to rot, or get chipped and sent to Nevada for the real psychopaths to play with. It was what he deserved, for his stupidity if nothing else. Perhaps a brain implant was what he needed. Maybe someone could shove a chip into his thick skull that would give him some common sense.

And what if he _had_ gone too far? What if Riley was deciding – right at this moment – that he wasn't worth the saving? It could get a lot worse than this. Spike was no stranger to pain, but to the kind of people who ran these places, pain was like the air. They lived in it, breathed it; were so far sunk into it that they no longer even noticed it.

What in God's name was an innocent like Riley doing in a place like this?

He flung himself into the corner and sank his head between his knees. Reflexively, he patted his pockets looking for that illusory pack of smokes, then set to picking at his nails again to keep himself from crying. It was unbearable being caged-up and having to wait – _just wait_ – and hope that Riley would again show mercy: come back with a map, like he'd said he would, and give Spike a chance to show how sorry he was.

And why the hell did it have to be so bloody bright in here? Always brighter than daylight; always exposing a bloke to the gaze of whoever chanced by. All he wanted to do was crawl into somewhere dark and not come out again.

Not caring who saw him, Spike curled himself into a tight ball in the corner of the cell, blocking out as much light as he could by pulling his coat over him. He stayed like that for an hour, two hours, tormenting himself with hideous visions; punishing himself for his recklessness.

At last, when his imagination had done its worst, a tenuous calm settled over Spike; came over him like blessing.

He gave himself a mental slap for his self-indulgence. He'd been looking at it all wrong. Because Riley Finn wasn't him, was he? He should thank his ingrate stars that Riley was a White Hat; he'd proved that more than once already. He'd come back and given his blood, even after being called a Nazi. That had to mean something.

Riley had promised to get him out, and Riley would do right by him now, even in spite of his petulance and tantrums.

The tension slowly drained out of him.

There was a good chance he wouldn't even survive the surgery.

Bloody hell: brain surgery.

But he was still the better for Riley's help, even if he didn't make it out. Someone cared enough to try to save him, even if they failed. That had to count for something, right? It had to.

Riley had said that he'd be back. And he would be back. That was good enough.   
Spike uncurled a little, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

 

** _"'I … do not like to condemn anyone to death. And now I think I will go on my way.'" _ **

When Riley slipped past William's cell, he saw only a sleeping form under the big coat, and though he longed to speak to him – to try and make things be right again – he decided not to wake him. Their last exchange had been wholly disconcerting. Maybe it was better to let the guy sleep it off as best he could.

He turned the stake over in his hand, trying to decide on the best grip. The three vampires who were not William would probably have been considerably weakened by their stay in the Initiative, and he had little fear of being overpowered when he went into their cells – but he was taking a taser in with him anyway, as well as the stake.

No point leaving anything to chance.

Bracing himself, Riley picked one of the three other cells at random, and let himself in.

The first vamp he tackled was technically the hardest to kill: a middle-aged man: probably a banker in his previous life, and carrying a lot of weight. The man flapped his hands ineffectually, and snarled in a way that would have been comical, if it hadn't been real. And Riley missed the heart the first time. It was horrible; it was messy; he tried not to think about what he was doing – just get it done – and after that, it was quickly over with.

The next cell housed a burly-looking redneck with a beard you could lose a bear in. The man was lying on his back – asleep and snoring, despite the noise the other guy had made. He only muttered and rolled over when he heard the cell bars slide back. Riley knelt beside him, pulled him onto his back, and quickly thrust the stake up and under the ribs, which could still be seen through the ragged, unhealed chest wound. The hillbilly's eyes briefly flickered open in outrage, and then he was dust.

Riley felt a twinge of guilt at killing a sleeping man. But surely that was better than if he'd struggled, wasn't it?

After that, the military voice in Riley's head said briskly, "Two down, one to go!"

He wished that voice would shut up. This wasn't a game, and he wasn't keeping score.

His heart sank when he came to the last cell. It contained a thin, scruffy, dark-haired vampire: a teenage girl, her hair matted with dirt and leaves. The few shreds of clothing she had on were in no better condition than she was. Cowering in the corner, she looked up at him, full of fear and confusion, saying, "Why am I here?"

Riley didn't know what to say; he desperately wanted not to engage at all. That was what had got him into this mess in the first place.

When he didn't answer, the girl started babbling and pleading, "I was good. I was! I don't deserve this." She sobbed before continuing, "We were _going_ to get married. We were. I only slept with him that one time." She looked pleadingly at Riley, as though her salvation or damnation were in his hands. "Why would God send me here, for that?"

Sickened, Riley realised that the girl had only just come out of the ground when she'd been caught. She'd probably never had a chance to feed; never killed a single person; maybe didn't even know she was showing the distorted features of a vampire. He was paralysed with indecision. How could he kill her? There was no way it was right.

But he had to get William out.

He'd promised.

And there was no way he could save them both.

As he looked at the ceiling in helpless misery, Riley let his hands drop to his sides; the stake slipped from his fingers. Within a second the girl scrambled, snarling and feral, towards his cut hand, and bit into him. Startled into action, he shocked her with the taser, dropping her instantly. Before he could change his mind, he retrieved the stake and drove it into her puny, damaged chest.

Her dust drifted, coating with a grey skin, the congealed blood she had vomited up this morning.

Riley turned away.

If William was awake while Riley went about the grisly business, he didn't show it.

 

_ **"'... if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life …'" ** _

Spike often dreamed of the sun.

But now he was inside a glass dome where the sun never shone, and he was suffocating, even though he didn't need to breathe.

From his glass prison, he could see a field. It would be warm there – he knew it would – but where he was it was cold: as cold as hell. Inside that barbed wire fence, in that golden expanse of waving heads of corn, heavy with seeds, he would never feel cold again.

But it was out of reach.

He was trapped and panting for breath.

He clicked his heels together, and at once he was in the field.

The sun kissed him.

In the field was a scarecrow. He walked towards the scarecrow. This seemed to take a very long time. It looked up at him, and he jerked backwards in alarm. It had Riley's face, and was wearing a circlet of rose thorns on its head.

"Drink of my blood," the scarecrow said.

It tried to offer its wrist, but its arm was still anchored to the cross-pole. The rope that tied him there hissed, "Take the heart!" and slithered away down his body to the ground.

"Drink of my blood," said the scarecrow who was Riley. "Drink and you will be saved."

Spike tried to drink, but his mouth was wired shut with some kind of leather contraption: a muzzle, like one Angelus had used on him sometimes, to stop him talking so much. He dropped his fangs and cut through it.

"Drink and you will be saved," Riley said again, offering his arm; but when Spike tried to bite down on it, there was only straw in his mouth.

Then the scarecrow, in his sorrow, cried tears of blood, and Spike kissed them from his cheeks. And the scarecrow was a real boy again. Spike used his fangs to cut him free.

 

** _"It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others …"_ **

Riley was in a fragile state when he got back to his dorm. He took the stake out of his pocket and looked at it for a long time. He was in no doubt that it was a murder weapon, plain and simple, but he didn't have time for contemplation. He still had a map to draw, so that William would be able to find his way out of the Initiative maze; so that all this would have some meaning.

He dropped the stake among the rest of the debris on the floor.

Pencil; he needed a pencil. Writing stuff was in the top drawer of the dressing table. When he went to get it, Riley's attention was drawn to the picture of his mom and dad, taken outside their farm. He picked it up and ran a finger round the plain wooden frame. It was like a window into another world. If only he could step through into that golden past, where he'd never known such darkness existed.

But he wasn't in Kansas any more.

Carefully, Riley turned the picture face down on the dressing table. He didn't want his mom to see his face right now.

Then he opened the wrong drawer: the one with two small presentation boxes in the front. Despite his better judgement, he felt compelled to get them out. He opened one of them, took the medal – the Legion of Merit – out of its box and held it in the palm of his hand. His mother had been so proud of him the day he'd told her about it. He sat on the edge of his bed, gripping the metal bauble, and wondering bitterly whether she'd be so proud of her little boy, if she'd seen what he'd done to earn it; if she'd seen what he'd done this day.

Professor Walsh's trademark rejoinder rang hollowly in his ears: 'Make me proud!' His shoulders shook with dry sobs, and a trickle of blood ran out from between his fingers. He flung the medal away across the room.

If Professor Walsh had checked the monitor for Agent Finn, number 75329, she would have been deeply concerned. She would have called him in immediately to ask what was troubling him. Emotions led to inefficiency. She might have made changes to his 'vitamins'.

It wouldn't have mattered.

He'd stopped taking them.

The robot bird chirped each morning in vain.

But the Professor rarely looked at the monitors during the day.

After a few moments the storm passed, leaving Riley drained, and a little disgusted with himself. William was the one having his brain operated on tomorrow morning. William was the one who would become painfully familiar with the joys of 'operant conditioning' and 'partial reinforcement', followed by almost certain death, if Riley didn't do something about it.

He _**was**_ going to do something about it. Wallowing in self pity wasn't going to get the job done.

First things first.

He rinsed the blood off his hands, then he applied antiseptic to the puncture wounds on his right hand where the points of the medal had dug in, as well as to the cut on his left – ripped wide by the teeth of the girl he'd just killed. That was just great. Now both his hands had visible and inexplicable injuries which he'd have to keep anyone from noticing.

Win or lose, he wouldn't have to keep them hidden for much longer.

Without further distractions, Riley found a pencil, and set about drawing a map of the base in as much detail as he thought would be useful, for someone simply trying to get out of it. He was coolly aware that he was assisting a self-confessed murderer to escape from custody.

And now: he didn't care.

He didn't care whether the behaviour modification implant worked or not. He didn't care any more, whether William hurt or even killed any of his comrades in arms while making good his escape. Perhaps a few casualties, military or civilian – they were all the same under the uniform – really didn't matter. Perhaps if you wanted there to be lions in the world, you had to accept the death of a few deer, or pigs or whatever it was lions ate.

And he wanted William in the world.

Since he'd joined the army, he'd seen wonders: things that few others had ever seen, and lived; things you couldn't see on the Discovery Channel; things un-catalogued in any published scientific text; things he'd never dreamed existed.

And he'd killed them all, at Maggie Walsh's behest.

When he thought about how he'd just killed three vampires in cold blood, and when he thought about William – his chest torn open, his face burned with cigarettes and holy water – he couldn't bring himself to believe that there was anything so vastly superior about humans.

Vampires or humans, they all had a choice.

He wondered what choice William would make, if the chip didn't work as planned.

Perhaps William would kill him.

Perhaps he would deserve it.

 

_ **"'I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others.'" ** _

And now, Spike was waiting.

He could have cursed himself for a fool – should have – but he accepted this about himself: when he fell, he fell hard and all the way down.

The prison walls and bars that surrounded him melted away – as insubstantial as a dream.

Riley Finn was his reality.

So he waited: waited for grey eyes, wide open and generous as the sky; he could swim in that sky, out to the far horizons; waited for strong, life-giving hands; he wanted to lose himself, and loose himself in those big hands and water all the fields of Iowa with his dead seed.

An involuntary sound came from his throat.

He was Riley's dog now.

So he waited at the bars, to bite the hand that fed him.

 

** _"On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince to be comforted." _ **

It was nearly time.

The orderly was doing his final checks before taking his break.

Riley would be here; Spike was almost sure of it.

He closed his eyes, breathing and hoping.

Yes! Those were Riley's footfalls.

He was coming.

Feeling weak with gratitude, Spike went at once to stand at the front of the cell, trying his hardest to be the very picture of contrition. It wasn't a deception. He just didn't want there to be any mistake about it.

Riley looked almost as nervous as Spike felt, but Spike wasn't going to let that affect what he had to say. He lowered his gaze – looked at Riley's boots.

"I'm sorry Riley. The way I spoke to you … well, after all you've done, it was unforgivable." He ventured to meet Riley's eyes with his own, but diffidently. "Please forgive me."

"Oh! God, no! I mean, yes, of course." Riley's pupils dilated with relief. "I'm just glad you're not still mad at me."

He laid a hand on the bars as if to steady himself, and Spike touched his fingers to Riley's knuckles, saying, "No, not mad at you Riley. Mad at destiny is all. Took it out on you. Shouldn't have."

Riley took a deep breath. "We're good here then?"

Spike nodded keen affirmation.

"Well, that's … great." Riley fished in his pocket, drew out a map, and handed it to Spike. "Here. Memorise this, then eat it."

Puzzled, but anxious to co-operate, Spike wrinkled his nose. "Eat it?"

"Sorry," Riley said, looking embarrassed. "Just trying to lighten the mood. Memorise it, then give it back to me. You don't wanna get caught with it."

"Oh." After a couple of minutes of creased-browed perusal of the map, Spike passed it back. "I think I got it."

"Sure?" Riley looked at him with concern. "You need to be sure."

Spike took the map back, turned it around to orient himself in relation to it, and studied it once more. It seemed simple enough. "Sure," he confirmed.

"Okay then," Riley said. "I've found out a bit more about this implant. It's designed to stop you harming people by causing you pain – like an electric shock – when you attack someone. It has to calibrate first, so that it doesn't punish you just for having a violent thought. It does that by judging your reactions before and after a successful attack. So you should get one or two chances to – well, to attack someone, before it becomes fully functional."

Spike scratched his stomach. The healing skin was itching. "You don't mind about that?" he asked with mingled doubt and surprise.

"Well, try not to kill anyone, or they'll think the implant doesn't work. Then they'll never stop hunting you."

Spike nodded pensively, trying to hide his glow of pleasure that this time around, Riley had invoked his – Spike's – safety, rather than his own conscience. "Okay."

"They'll knock you down as normal in the morning, then do the surgery, but when you come round you'll be upstairs – in the glass-fronted cells where they put you when you were first captured. You'll be watched the whole time, so I won't be able to talk to you, or get anything to you. You'll be on your own."

Spike nodded again, but the words, 'No, I won't' hovered in his brain. He resisted saying them. He had some little pride left after all – couldn't have Riley thinking he was a complete sap.

"The armoured van to take you to Nevada is due at 19:30. When the drugged blood pack comes down, you'll know it's nearly that time. Hide the full pack like I told you, and make sure you put the empty decoy pack in view, but face down so they can't read the label. Then you'll have to act like you've been drugged. There's a surveillance camera in every cell, so make it good. Be ready to make your move as soon as they get you out."

"Thanks." Spike frowned, trying to think of any questions he needed to ask. But Riley seemed to have covered everything.

"Don't worry, I'll be running what interference I can to back you up. I won't tell you everything I have planned in case you talk while you're under sedation, but your way should be pretty clear. The route I've marked isn't used much. It should bring you out near the Last Retreat Funeral Gardens. If I don't catch up with you sooner, I'll meet you near that big mausoleum."

Spike's heart lurched with surprise.

Riley was planning on meeting up with him outside?

That was … unexpected.

Not that he didn't want to see Riley again. It shocked Spike how much he wanted it. He'd just assumed that – like most people – Riley would be glad to be rid of him; to forget about him and get his life back to normal.  
This felt strange, and thrilling, and he knew the particular cemetery quite well. "Hopkins memorial?" Spike hazarded. "One of those ostentatious jobs, with the caryatids?"

Riley's face scrunched up. "With the what?"

"Got four bints carryin' it," Spike translated – or tried to.

"Four what?"

"Um, women. Four women – probably not wearin' much."

"Oh. Yes, that's the one."

"Okay," Spike nodded once. "Looks like we're all set then."

"Looks like," Riley confirmed.

There was one of those silences.

Then they were kissing hungrily with teeth and tongues, handling each other roughly – desperately – through the bars. Riley tried to pull away, saying, "Not here, not like this. When I've got you out of here –" but Spike looked at him with shining eyes and said, "Riley, I might be brain-dead by tomorrow night."

~~

Riley squeezed his eyes tight shut against the image. He wanted to say, 'No, Angleman's a good doctor, he knows what he's doing' – but he knew that as far as demons and vampires were concerned, surgical practice was still in the Dark Ages. More truthfully, he said, "Angleman can be a bit of a butcher, but he's also a competent surgeon when he wants to be. Your brain can't be that different from a normal human brain. You were human after all. You'll come through."

William sighed deeply. "Yeah, you're probably right." He turned away from the bars, relief – or maybe disappointment – in the slump of his shoulders.

"Wait –" Riley said.

There was nowhere for a man to go in a cell ten feet square, and Riley felt foolish, but only for as long as it took for William to get back to the bars.

Not long.

William stood facing him again, his lips parted; waiting.

Riley dropped to his knees. "I want to do something for you," he said. With shaking fingers, he fumbled with William's zip and clumsily released him from his jeans. William breathing hitched with surprise, and Riley was frozen with indecision – almost panic. He was making one hell of an assumption. What if William didn't want this?

He looked up into William's astonished eyes, and waited for permission.

Shakily, William started to say, "Riley, you don't have to –" but the look in his eyes gave Riley all the consent he needed. His heart was pounding as he pressed his lips to the head of William's cock; kissed it reverently; rubbed his cheek against it and took it in his mouth.

He hadn't planned this; hadn't done it before, didn't even know what he was doing – but he put all his remorse for the deeds he had done this day and the deeds his fellow soldiers had done, and all his compassion for William's fears about tomorrow into this act of contrition.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget where they were; that there was any barrier between them. William's cock in his mouth; it was amazing; comforting and arousing at the same time. He was getting hard just from the helpless sounds of need William was making and the feel of the vampire's erection, cool against his tongue, grazing the roof of his mouth. But this wasn't about what he wanted, it was for William, and he was going to do his damnedest to make it good for him.

It might be the only chance he got.

~~

It was the first time Riley had ever done this, and it showed, in his eager haste and in his heartbeat, but it didn't matter. His willing inexperience melted Spike's insides like toffee.

Why was Riley doing this for him? It was all arse-about-face. Spike had expected there'd be sexual favours involved somewhere along the line, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be on the receiving end.

It was all he could do not to come just at the sight of this big man on his knees before him. He gripped the bars that divided them, and gently combed his other hand through Riley's hair, and stroked his cheek, his jaw, as he murmured reassurances, and tried hard not to make Riley gag.

Then Riley took him in deeper, and Spike let out a long, shuddering breath.

He tried to control himself, as he rode the rush of fear and near-despair towards climax, but waves of gratitude to the man doing him this service that he'd done nothing to merit and shame at his weakness in allowing it – wanting it – swept him ruthlessly towards a wipe-out. Tremors racked him. He went into game-face to try to channel the energy away – to spare Riley a little on his first time – but Riley's inexpert mouth was bringing him off all the more quickly.

"Fuck, Riley, oh, oh no …"

Spike groaned long and loud as he came, and kept coming. He was left weak – clinging to any bit of Riley he could get hold of like a drowning man.

~~

And Riley held William; massaged his thighs, his ass, squeezing out the last shiver, not wanting the moment to end too soon, or ever. A little thrown by the intensity, he still managed to swallow, and it was cool and bitter-sweet.

He felt calm and strangely sated, even though he was as hard and wanting now as William had been in his mouth. Still on his knees, resting his head against the vampire's stomach, he asked, "Was that okay?"

He felt William gently pull him to his feet.

Still in game-face, William rubbed his ridged forehead against Riley's.

"Thank you," he said.

Riley was held for a moment in the golden searchlights of his eyes.

Then William was cleaning a few remnants of his come from around Riley's mouth, with careful licks that were almost caresses, and Riley was almost undone.

~~

When Spike pulled back, Riley's eyes were closed and his lips were parted, begging for a kiss; Spike suppressed the demon, so that he could kiss the boy without cutting him up.

He would have knelt, then, to return the favour, but Riley wouldn't allow it, and Spike felt himself melt just a little more.

They kissed again, for a long time, and languidly, both in a trance state. When Riley could take no more, he offered his hand, and Spike fed, taking small drags, holding Riley's hand in his, and casually brushing his thumb over and between Riley's lips until even that was too much.

Spike looked down at where Riley's cock was pressing against his fatigues; he ghosted a hand over it and Riley moaned softly, ready to spill at a single word of command. At that moment there was nothing Spike wanted more than to see it happen – to see Riley's face break open, and watch him and hold him as he came.

But it wouldn't be right to send the kid back to the frat house in a mess.

Taking a deep breath, Spike withdrew to the back of his cell. "Go now," he said. "Think of me when you come."

Riley murmured, "I can't think of anyone else."

Then he hastened away, to do as he was bid.

 

**Day 9**

_"'Flowers are so inconsistent!'" _

Spike was known for his impatience: notorious for it. Never could stand waiting. He got antsy; wanted to break things and such like. But waiting to have some untested pain-giving bit of kit inserted into his cranium? This was about the least fun he'd had, and it wasn't because he was looking forward to it.

As the hours dragged on, he couldn't stop thinking about other times he'd had to wait for the inevitable, powerless to escape or affect the outcome. It wasn't much comfort. Put some things into perspective a bit though.

Waiting for Angelus to come home, drunk or sober, and take out his self-loathing on William, passing it down the generations: that had been bad. He'd never really known what to expect, and the big bastard could be very inventive, both with choice of implement, and what to do with it.

Worse, was waiting in that bloody wheelchair for his injuries to heal, while Dru flirted with Angelus Mark II, and worse than flirting; while the two of them took knowing and wanton pleasure in his anguish at being unable to see to her. That was real torment: knowing that after all these long years of caring for her, he was still second-best.

Got him right where he lived.

The worst though, was at that villa outside Prague, with Dru all broken up and her skin burned half-off. Waiting for her to wake up, open her eyes, speak to him, or move the smallest muscle – that was the worst. Yeah. He'd have gone through anything to save Dru: even this.

And where was she now? Making it with half the demons in Brazil. That's what a hundred years and more of devotion had got him.

Where love had got him.

He snorted. Bugger! He was brooding; turning into the Great Poof already. That wasn't on.

As a distraction, Spike checked himself over. Ribs were knitting fine. They'd be weak for a while though, so somehow he'd have to make sure he fed regularly. There was still a nasty raw area in the middle of his chest, but that would heal by tomorrow, thanks to Riley's regular donations.

Vitamins? Bollocks! There was more to it than vitamins.

Must be why he was so sweet on the big lunk, and itching to see him all the time.

He could still hardly believe what had happened last night, what Riley'd done for him. It made him weak at the knees just thinking about it.

Maybe he'd dreamed it.

Christ, he needed a ciggie; needed one more than he'd ever needed one before in his life.

But over that, given the choice, he'd take another kiss from Riley Finn any day.

What a sentimental git he was.

Shaking his head at himself, he took a quick look outside the cell to make sure no one was about, dropped fangs, and ripped the corner off the pack of clean blood. He wasn't hungry, but the pack would be easier to keep hidden when it was empty. Riley's plan was a good one. He'd seemed confident in it, so Spike was confident. Riley had thought of everything. If it didn't work – well, it wouldn't be the boy's fault.

Spike had never had dealings with anyone like Riley before; certainly never had a thing for anyone like him.

The contrast with Dru could hardly be greater, but … Fuck!

Spike slapped himself on the forehead.

Who was he kidding? Whichever way the chips fell, by tomorrow night it'd be all over bar the shouting. Sure, Riley said he'd meet him on the outside. But Spike had seen it on the telly; they always say they'll call don't they? And even if he was there at the appointed place, he'd probably just give old Spike a pat on the back, wish him luck – maybe finally accept a little something in return – and then go back to being a good tin soldier. He'd soon get over this vamp groupie kick he was on.

And Spike? Well, he'd be hiding out in a drain or a crypt somewhere till the heat died down, trying to break this rather worrying habit of thinking about himself in the third person. He'd survive somehow; always had up to now. Willie'd probably give him a sub till he was back on his feet – maybe even help him find someone to get the chip out. There was always some bloke who could do anything for the right price.

Sure, he'd miss Iowa Boy.

But even if Riley did want to tag along like some big Andrex puppy, he'd be a liability in the demon world. He'd be bound to try and persuade Spike to leave this chip thingy where it was, assuming it worked; and it surely would.

That was how his luck ran.

It could never work out …

This place was a pressure cooker; no wonder things were getting heated between them; but once they got out … well, the metaphor broke down, and so would anything there might be between him and Riley.

Most likely …

Spike thumped the wall of his cell.

How had he let himself get so turned around?

Why was he even thinking about this?

He wasn't thinking about it.

Better all round to leave Riley Finn where he belonged.

This addiction thing would never last; couldn't last.

Spike had thought that he and Dru were a forever kind of deal.

How wrong he'd been.

And Riley was mortal.

Nothing lasted.

 

** _"On the morning of his departure he put his planet in perfect order." _ **

Riley hadn't slept at all.

He'd turned over and over until his bed looked as though a dog had slept in it, got up at first light, showered, and gone down to check the patrol rosters. He had every right to check the patrol rosters; in fact, it was his duty to check the patrol rosters. But today, he felt oh-so conspicuous as he tried to feign casual interest in the task, while memorising who had been posted where.

His own hand-drawn map was more detailed than William's, and included all the emergency exit tunnels and parts of the adjoining cave system, as well as the whole of the base. The sentry positions were marked. Now he could add the names of the guys he could expect to be manning those positions.

The targets he would have to neutralise.

Back in his room, he wrote himself a schedule: who should be taken out, at what time, and in what order, to minimise the chance of the alarm being raised. The three nearest the base should be first, then he would work outwards; that way, even if he didn't manage to take out both the inner and outer sentries before William made his break, there'd at least be a clear run to the outer defence ring. An encounter with the more widely dispersed outer perimeter guards was less likely, and even then, with any luck, Riley would still be running ahead of him.

His main worry was that the chip would be so disabling that even the medical staff would be able to restrain their prisoner. But he had confidence in William's abilities. He seemed to have recovered from the worst of his injuries; superficial scarring remained, but he was moving better, and he had over a century of experience to draw on.

When Riley thought of the things the man must have seen and done – the wonders and horrors he'd witnessed – and still retained his ability to engage with the world, and want to keep living in it, he was a little awed. For all the accumulated years, the 120-year-old vampire still seemed young to Riley. He didn't know whether he'd ever have the chance to know William Bennett better; but he wanted to.

He wanted it very much.

 

** _"'Tonight – you know … Do not come.'  
'I shall not leave you,' I said." _ **

The morning had seemed like it would never end. Riley had been to the gym for a light work-out: nothing that might risk an injury. He'd showered again. He'd re-checked his schedule, looking for flaws in his planning.

He'd even graded papers, maybe for the last time. By midday, he had persuaded himself that it was perfectly reasonable to go check that William had survived the operation.

If he hadn't – well, there would be more than a few sentries to take out.

Riley went downstairs to the main containment area, feeling like he was going to his own execution.

~~

When the drugs wore off, Spike found himself back in the glass-fronted cell, just as Riley had said he would be. He ran his hand around the base of his skull. The good doctor had drilled a hole in it, and that's exactly how it felt: like there was an army of dwarves mining it, all of them wearing hobnailed boots.

Still no painkillers for the vampire then. Nice.

But at least he was alive, and as compos mentis as he ever was, even if his head hurt abominably.

He guessed it was midday, and confirmed it – give or take – by his usual method of checking a passing medic's watch.

Looking around the cell, he spotted the camera's eye observing him. Have to watch that; turn his back and use a bit of sleight of hand when it was time to pull the switch with the blood packs. Casually, he checked his pocket to make sure the empty hadn't fallen out while he'd been on the operating slab; it was still safely stowed.

Then his stomach turned over as he thought he saw Riley walk past, looking neither left nor right.

Trying to look like he was just stretching his legs, Spike went to the front of the cell and looked after the retreating figure.

Yes; it was Riley Finn.

~~

It was long – the line of containment cells – and he scanned each one he came to with a quick glance, or peripheral vision. Things with hooves, things with horns, things with slime, whatever; there was only one demon he wanted to see.

And he was there: alive, and on his feet.

Relief flooded through Riley like an orgasm, but he forced himself to keep walking in case he was being observed.

Coming to the blind end of the row, he turned back. There was no one in sight, so he swiftly made his way back to the only cell that mattered, but slowed when he saw William waiting at the other end of the cell front, looking straight at him. As he began to walk past, William started walking in the opposite direction.

Riley understood.

It would make their brief encounter a precious second or two longer. As they passed each other, he ached to touch the glass, but it wasn't safe for either of them.

For the few short seconds it took them to pace the length of the cell, grey eyes and blue remained fixed on each other.

To a casual observer they could have been mortal enemies.

But they weren't enemies.

And there was a pounding in Riley's chest, because there was no way on earth he could stop himself doing what he was about to do; no way he could stop himself from silently uttering the words, "I love you."

William's pupils dilated in wonder – astonishment – and his lips parted as if to respond; then he shook his head fearfully; backed away; turned away.

Well, that wasn't quite the response Riley had been hoping for. Biting his lip – hoping that he hadn't just muddied the waters and caused confusion that would cost them the success of the plan – Riley went quickly about his business.


	5. Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is ever easy, but sometimes it's worth it.

** _"I was carried beyond myself by the inspiring force of urgent necessity." _ **

Taking care not to think about their last encounter, Riley checked his essential equipment for the last time: two bottles of chloroform and eight wads of cotton wool; some duct tape; some cable ties; two hand tasers; a handgun; his own radio, and someone else's that he'd swiped when he found it lying around at the base; a couple grenades; a set of cuffs; his knife.

In the last resort: his fists.

All present and correct.

At last, it was 18:30; the patrols would be doing their hourly check-in. Riley had already made an 'official' call to Nevada to find out whether everything was on schedule.

It was.

In an hour the armoured van would be here.

Time to move.

The first target was such an easy takedown that Riley wanted to reprimand the soldier who lay in an unconscious heap at his feet. He'd crept up behind the guy and knocked him out with a blow to the back of the head. To keep him under, he'd taped a wad of cotton wool soaked in chloroform over the man's nose and mouth, and – in case that wasn't enough – secured his hands and feet with cable ties. The man's radio was forfeit.

Riley made his way swiftly through the corridors to the next target; the second man went down as easily as the first. This was guard duty? Shocking! But then again, they weren't expecting an attack from inside the base.

The third was more alert, and Riley quickly altered his approach from stealthy to nonchalant. The guy relaxed when he saw who it was, and Riley tasered him as he went past, then chloroformed and cable-tied him the same as the others, just to make sure.

Now for phase two.

Riley moved on and outwards, through the less-used passages and tunnels, and slipped through the perimeter. It took him ten minutes to get to a wooded area at the side of the base opposite to the one he'd directed Spike to use as his escape route. He was breathless already; didn't have to fake that.

Using the radio he'd stolen at the base, he reported that a Polgara demon was attacking a group of kids hanging out in the park, and that he needed back-up. He messed with the frequency a bit, and altered his voice so that it wouldn't be too easily recognised. It was a stone-cold certainty that at least two patrols would be sent out to deal with the 'situation'. Professor Walsh had been hankering for a Polgara for some time. He heard her hailing him on his own radio, ordering him to report in.

Damn!

He ignored it, and smashed and discarded the radio in thick undergrowth, along with all but two of the others. Then he moved to another location half a mile away, and reported that a werewolf had been sighted breaking from cover, even though it was only just getting dark.

That was enough; you could cry wolf too often.

He checked his watch. It was 19:10. Already he could hear the radio traffic to and fro, as the Initiative soldiers searched for non-existent threats in the woods.

Now for the outer perimeter guards.

 

** _"… for his escape he took advantage of the migration of a flock of wild birds." _ **

By 19:20 the base was all but deserted. Riley's call about the werewolf attack turned out to be strangely prophetic; in fact, there had been a spate of them. Any soldiers who weren't already hunting the strangely elusive Polgara demon had been sent out after the wholly corporeal werewolves, on catch-or-kill missions.

As Spike lay on the floor feigning unconsciousness, he was vaguely aware that things weren't going to plan out there: at least, not for his jailers. The medical orderlies were looking panicked. He heard one say, "Well, surely they can spare at least one or two armed men to accompany the gurney to the van?"

He couldn't decipher the reply.

"Well what about the boys from Nevada?" the lab-coat whinged. "Can't they provide an escort?"

Through a half-open eye, Spike saw the man drop his arms to his sides in resignation at the answer. All he said as he swiped the card that opened Spike's cell was, "Bureaucracy!"

Then, for a while, everything went according to Riley's plan.

No sooner had the medics wheeled Spike out of his cell than he was in game-face and roaring. They jumped back in alarm. In a single move, he slid off the trolley and shoved it towards them, knocking them over in a disorder of arms and legs. There was a slight vibration in his head – not exactly pain, but it gave him pause.

Not literally though.

He belted down the corridors as though all the demons he'd ever pissed off were after him, and he hardly saw a single soldier on the base.

If Spike had been impressed by Riley Finn before, he was now officially a member of the choir. As he made his way through deserted passages, he finally came across one of the men Riley had put down. The guy was out cold, trussed up, with his head lolling to one side, just begging to be Christmas dinner; Spike went past him without a second glance.

His confidence was increasing with every yard he put between himself and the containment area. Meeting no one that wasn't horizontal, he'd decided not to worry about stealth; speed was what mattered, and he didn't have to stop and think, because the escape route was burned into his memory.

He was nearly home free.

Then he was looking down the barrel of a gun. Worse news: the ugly mug at the other end belonged to Forrest's mate, Jay.

He knocked the barrel aside and aimed a fist at the man's face, but before the blow even landed, a blinding migraine exploded behind his eyes.

Jay smashed him against the wall and pressed the gun to his throat.

"Hello, Hostile 17. Looking for me?" He leered. "I knew you wanted it. No need to be coy. We're all men of the world."

Still reeling from the pain in his head, Spike decided to stall. He licked his lower lip suggestively. "Yeah, well, it wasn't your mate's dick I wanted to wrap my lips around was it? It was yours."

Jay's mouth dropped open, and Spike felt the pressure on his throat lessen slightly.

Jay just had time to say, "Well, that could be arranged –" before he dropped to the floor, paralysed in his turn, but by a taser hit.

Riley was there, wild-eyed and panting.

~~

Riley stared when he saw who it was he'd just downed. The roster must have been altered. If he'd known that one of William's tormentors would be at this position, he'd have gotten here sooner. William had been at Jay's mercy _again_, and that just topped up the rage already swelling inside him.

He drew his foot back to aim a savage kick at the man's head, but he felt William's hand on his arm; heard him saying, "Riley, no …"

Suddenly suspicious, Riley gritted out, "Why not? Why do you care?"

~~

Spike didn't really know why he'd stopped Riley. He'd have given the bastard lying at his feet a good head-kicking himself, if it weren't for the chip; but that wasn't the way Riley did things.

He looked at Riley intently, trying to bring him back down – remind him who he was. "Not the head, Riley," he said. "Remember what you told me? Not to kill anyone?"

Riley was quivering, the restrained violence brimming out of his pores in chemical waves Spike could taste.

"OK," he grunted.

As Spike turned to move on, he heard a crack. Riley had kicked the unconscious man in the ribs. Then Spike felt Riley's hand on his arm, pulling him back. Still totally wired, Riley demanded, "What you said to him. About … wanting him."

Spike's eyes widened. So he'd heard that, had he? "Buying time is all, Riley, I swear it."

Riley loosened his grip but didn't let go. He was looking more dangerous than Spike had ever seen him. "What if I hadn't turned up? Would you have ...?"

The truth was, he would have done whatever it took to get away: including going down on Jay, and taking the opportunity to bite through the big git's dick – mammoth migraine be damned. But Riley wasn't playing with a full deck right now, and the truth was something he definitely didn't need to hear.

Nevertheless, an answer was required.

"Not a chance," Spike said. "Just wanted him to loosen his grip so I could wriggle out of it."

Riley held his gaze for another moment, then finally – satisfied with what he saw – released his hold. "This way," he said, indicating one of the tunnels. "We shouldn't encounter any more regular sentries, but there may be patrols running around. Once we get out, we'll have to get to cover, fast."

With Riley taking point, they threaded their way through the tunnels without encountering any more resistance. Tunnels gave way to caves, and finally they came out in woods near the foot of a hill. Riley produced two grenades from his pocket, pulled the pins, threw the grenades into the mouth of the cave they'd just exited, and dragged Spike to the ground, while the roof and part of the hillside collapsed behind them.

They got up and ran.

 

** _"'This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity.'" _ **

They stopped to rest a few miles from their starting point, standing on a bluff overlooking one of the many cemeteries that gave Sunnydale its deceptively peaceful air. Riley made sure they were down-slope a little, not silhouetted against the skyline. Big Boy Scout thought of everything.

Spike breathed deeply, and for the first time in days the air he tasted didn't smell of vomit and antiseptic. Looking around him, and seeing the stars in the open sky and the full moon hanging there like a big shiny silver plate, the realisation that he'd _actually escaped_ felt … well, it felt like what it was: like a death sentence had been lifted. He was free. There really wasn't anything to compare.

As for the job Riley had done in getting him out: well, Spike was in awe. Even Angelus probably couldn't have done it: not on his own.

Riley was breathing heavily, but apart from the movement of his chest, he was standing stock still, like a dog on point. And he was looking at Spike, expectant; waiting for him to take the lead now that they were in Spike's domain, the Sunnydale night.

The man seemed calmer now, his earlier wildness dissipated by the run through the woods and suburban gardens. That was good. Spike was still wondering at Riley's barely-controlled rage during the incident back there with Jay. The green-eyed venom with which Riley had reacted towards his former comrade had been a shock and a revelation. It was a bloody great boost to Spike's flagging ego, and he was grateful for the save alright, but … he'd been over this already.

The matter was settled.

There was no future in this: not for him, and certainly not for Riley. He had to cut him loose, before it went any further. No point giving the kid false hope. He'd decided that; spent all day working himself up to it. It was gonna hurt like buggery for a few days, no doubt about that: like picking a really big scab; but whatever they might have told themselves, and whatever Riley might – or might not – have said when he'd walked past the cell earlier today, it wasn't like either of them was really in love, was it?

Riley had saved his skin more than once – and the rest of him too; seen him at his worst; taken pity on him in his weakness; comforted him like a child when he was ready to give up. Point being, he didn't think he could ever repay Riley Finn for that – or forgive him for it.

It was now or never.

Why was this so hard?

Evidently wondering why he was so quiet, Riley interrupted his thoughts. "Did you have any trouble getting away from the technicians?"

Well, here goes; easy as biting into a cyanide capsule.

"None at all. Everything went as smooth as silk, thanks to your brilliant planning. Very impressive." Spike managed to give his compliment such a hard edge that it sounded like an insult.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Riley said, frowning, the concern plain in his voice. "Did the chip activate – shock you at all?"

Typical of Riley: excusing his bitchy tone as a sign that he was in pain.

"Oh, don't worry, the gizmo works alright," Spike said acidly. "When I tried to clock that big bastard, it bloody nearly killed me." He felt his guts twisting into a painful knot, as he added, "I didn't damage anyone if that's what you're askin'. Your precious conscience can rest easy."

Riley was starting to look a little wounded now, but he still wasn't taking the hint. "So where do you think we should go now?" he said. "Do you know somewhere we can hide out?"

Spike braced himself; gritted his teeth. "What d'you mean?" he said, feigning casual disinterest in the joint planning process.

"William, you must know the area better than I do. Where should we head for? Where's a good place for us to lie low for a while?"

Spike looked at Riley as though he were an interesting beetle. "Are you really as dumb as you look?" he enquired, with an earnest tilt of his head. "Don't you get it? There is no _'us'_ Riley. This is the partin' of the ways."

Now Riley just looked stunned.

As an afterthought, Spike added, "Oh, and by the way, you can stop calling me 'William' any time you like. My name's 'Spike.'"

"'Spike'?" Riley blurted out. "Since when? What kind of a name is 'Spike'?"

"I chose it myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time." Spike paused before conceding, "I was called 'William', once. But I'm different now."

Riley's smooth features creased unhappily at the sharpness of Spike's tone. "You _**are**_ different. What's happened to you?"

Seeing Riley's bewildered, frightened look, Spike's resolve was nearly undone. He set his jaw, and began to pace, checking items off on his fingers.

"What's happened to me? Well, let's see. In the last few days I've been tasered and incarcerated without trial, your blessed Professor's played 'Vampire Operation' with my guts, I've been baptised with Holy Water, had some non-essential brain surgery, and now –" he made a cutting motion in the air with his hand: "– I'm getting the hell out of here, a sadder and wiser bloke."

He patted his pockets and snarled in frustration when he found them devoid, again, of fags. "And you're going back to your army pals."

~~

"What?" Riley felt his face redden. "They're not my pals, not any more. Not after what they've done. What I've done." He looked away. "At least one of them knows it was me that attacked him, so I can't go back even if I wanted to." He looked up sharply at Spike. "And I don't want to."

Spike sniffed. "You kill any of 'em?" he asked abruptly, staring at the ground, scuffing it with his toe.

"No, I don't think so. But I would have …" Riley didn't say 'for you'. He didn't have to. "Anyway, didn't you say we could meet up when you got out?" Riley was painfully aware of how whiny he sounded; how pathetic. But he couldn't help himself. "What's changed since then?" he pleaded. "I thought we were going to stick together." Maybe that was too much. "At least for a while …"

"And do what, precisely?" William – no, not 'William', 'Spike' – said with calculated sarcasm.

Riley turned away, a muscle in his jaw ticking nervously. He hadn't planned that far ahead.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Spike circled and got in his face. "You think we were going to set up house? Choose soft furnishings together?"

"No! I don't know. Maybe …" Riley searched frantically for the right thing to say. "I could fake my death somehow. Then we could go away somewhere."

Spike snorted. "Take a look at us," he went on remorselessly. "I'm a 120-year-old vampire, and you're … well, I don't know what you are." He waved a vague hand in the air. "The unholy love-spawn of Rogue Trooper and Captain bloody Fantastic. Bugger! I mean Captain America. What did you think we were going to do? Rampage across the countryside like Thelma and bloody Louise?"

~~

Spike felt a coil tighten around his heart. Exactly when, and how, had he turned into such a cunt? "I suppose you think I should stay with you out of gratitude," he sniped. "Do you have any idea how pathetic that is?"

Crushed, Riley could only stutter, "No … I ... We …"

Spike stole a sideways glance at him. God, this was so much harder than he'd thought it would be. Give the bloke credit, he was still there; still fighting his corner. Well, still cowering in it anyway, poor sod. Bloody buggering hell, was he going to have to take Iowa Boy apart piece by piece?

"You think because I've got this chip up my brain, I'd be pleased to be your houseboy? Get down on my knees every day for some of that stuff in your veins?"

"What? No."

"You think I'm … tame?"

From the look on Riley's face, nothing was further from his mind.

"I thought it was supposed to be the prisoner who got Stockholm Syndrome, not the bloody jailer." Spike spat the words out contemptuously.

With nothing left to lose, Riley dared to challenge him at last: "Well, don't you?"

"It's an addiction," Spike said coldly. "I'm addicted to something in your blood. You're addicted to being bit. That's all there is to it. And we'll both, get over it. So why don't you just trot off back to base and tell the Professor I had you in thrall, or hypnotised, or some such. They'll probably just make you peel a few spuds, then forget all about it."

"It's not thrall," Riley said simply. "And I haven't taken my 'vitamins' since you warned me about them. Not for the last five days."

Now it was Spike's turn to be thrown. In that time, his feelings for Riley had grown more intense, not less, and he'd done nothing to try to rein them back. He'd ridden them, thinking them a lie – a drug-induced delusion; used them to help his performance; to convince Riley to help him. He'd reckoned on going cold turkey when he got out.

At least, that's what he'd told himself.

But if what Riley said was true – and he didn't have it in him to lie – then it wasn't an addiction after all. If anyone was going cold turkey, it was Riley; as for Spike – well, he had a feeling that _he_ was about to find out what a subtle and treacherous mistress The Method could be.

Into the pregnant silence Riley pleaded – "I thought you felt something." He looked away. "I know I did."

Ignoring the pain in his heart at Riley's distress, Spike barked with derision to cover his growing confusion.

"Oh, bloody right I felt something. Do you want to know what I felt? Bloody petrified, that's what. You saw, you stood by and watched what they did to me. You think I _liked_ being cut open, and having your damned professor turn me bloody inside out? Petrified, hungry, and in desperate need of a shag, that's what I _**felt**_. As per bleedin' usual. And in agonising pain." Spike was pacing more vigorously now, throwing everything into the rant. "So if that feels like love to you, then maybe you're not as vanilla ice cream as you think."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Spike realised that Riley hadn't said anything about Spike loving him. He glanced at Riley. Kid was so upset, he hadn't noticed the slip. And Spike hated himself even more at that moment. Riley had done nothing wrong.

Nothing except save his wretched life.

~~

Riley cursed himself for an idiot.

Put like that, there was nothing to say. He'd put his career – his life – on the line, thinking there was something more to this than just … survival.

Spike had used him.

Somewhere in a dark corner of his mind, he'd known that he was being manipulated: at least at the start. But he'd been so sure there was more to it than that; sure that Spike – that William – was better than that: more than just a demon. The tears he'd seen William shed while he was sleeping – those had been real; and the look in his eyes that last night, even before he'd got on his knees for him …

Maybe Spike was a more accomplished actor than he'd given him credit for.

And he couldn't blame him. It had been _**his**_ life on the line. Riley would have done the same in his place, if he'd had the gall to try it.

"At least let me give you some money – for blood, expenses …" He trailed off lamely, holding out all the cash he had on him: fifty bucks.

~~

The thought of his future – or lack of it – without the ability to hunt: a future of living on pig's blood like the Forehead himself: just the thought of it was like a bitter poison in Spike's mouth. "What's that then?" he demanded, abrupt and brutal. "War Reparations?"

Something within him exulted at the pain on Finn's face, but at the same time it was a knife twisting in his own guts. He turned to walk away from the car crash he'd just caused, but Riley laid a hand on him – held him back.

"Will– sorry, _Spike_. Wait, please. I get that you're angry. And you're lashing out because of what they – what _**we**_ – did to you. I get that. I really do." He held Spike by the shoulders, looking earnestly at his face, but Spike turned his head to the side, still refusing – afraid – to meet his eyes.

"Take it out on me if you want to. I can take it. But please, Spike, please don't go. Don't leave me like this."

Spike shrugged away, gesticulating like a lunatic. "Just … Don't Psych 101 me, Finn. My psyche knows exactly who I am and why I do what I do. Can you say the same?"

"I could," Riley said with a catch in his voice. "Until I met you."

Spike looked down; closed his eyes to hide his shame at his own cowardice in the face of such courage from the man laying himself bare before him. He shook his head emphatically. "You've done me a big favour, I won't deny it. So let me give you a piece of advice Riley. Never fall for someone who needs your help. Because as soon as they don't need you any more ..."

He looked at the stars now, and bit his lower lip. "Forget it," he said, and turned on his heel, raising a hand to wave as he walked away. "Be seeing you." Feeling like someone had filled his insides with broken glass, he started down a pathway at random.

He hadn't got far before Riley raced down the trail after him and pulled him back. Wild-eyed with panic, Riley said, "No, you don't get to walk away from me. Not like this. Don't you at least owe me an explanation?"

Spike didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. The look on Riley's face was killing him. Best not to see it.

"Owe you? Thanks for reminding me. I do owe you. I owe you my life. Can't give that back to you, but never let it be said that Spike isn't grateful – doesn't pay his debts."

Quick as a snake, Spike was twining his body around Riley, pushing him back against the nearest tree trunk. It wasn't quite violence – it didn't set the chip off – but then, Riley wasn't resisting; he couldn't.

Spike ripped Riley's fatigues open, dropped to the ground, and roughly knocked his legs apart with an elbow. He shoved a rude fist up between Riley's thighs, knuckling him and Riley let out a shocked cry. He took Riley's rapidly arousing cock in his mouth, letting his eyes phase gold: giving Riley an instant adrenaline rush, in fear of the fangs that might drop. Then he showed him how a professional did it.

~~

Riley was powerless against Spike's assault. The memory of his own innocent, clumsy effort of last night filled him with shame, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his moans. He closed his eyes; his head rolled back helplessly against the tree and he let the emotional vortex of no-love, no-hope, nothing-worth-fighting-for overwhelm him. Spike's mouth was on him, mauling him, fucking him. Spike's hands were everywhere: on his thighs, his chest, his ass: probing, squeezing, scratching, flicking, pinching, raking behind his balls, every dirty, mean, spiteful touch driving him mercilessly to the edge, and now Spike was holding him there, preventing release; holding him there until Riley thought he might go into meltdown.

He risked a look down, and hissed at the sight of Spike's lips and tongue and teeth working on him.

"Please, Spike …"

Covering his eyes, because it was the only way he could ask for this; couldn't look and plead at the same time, it would be too much – he whispered, "Spike, please … I need you to ..." His throat tightened, cutting him off, but Spike knew what he wanted.

Slowly, very slowly, one hand still cruelly restraining him while the other was hurtfully occupied elsewhere, Spike dragged his lips up Riley's cock and teased the head a little, with soft lips and blunt teeth. Then he gave it a contemptuous kiss.

"All debts paid after this?" he demanded, cold and calculating.

Riley nodded mutely, almost crying with frustration.

Then the demon with golden eyes dropped his fangs and sank them into the skin on Riley's hip; into flesh like butter. He looked up; their eyes locked. Then he released his hold on Riley's dick, and drank.

Not doing Riley the kindness of jacking him; not even once.

Riley jerked, out of control. He whimpered forlornly for a touch he wasn't permitted, and shot his load at the star-spangled sky. Then he let out a long, keening moan.

Spike withdrew. He looked up, open-mouthed, as though catching raindrops.

Weak and sobbing, Riley had to lean against the tree for support.

Spike insinuated up his body. He taunted Riley with the contact he'd denied him when he'd most needed it, and pressed his brow ridges against Riley's forehead.

It was almost more than Riley could take. He felt cheated and violated. But he'd asked for this, hadn't he?

Hadn't read the fine print.

Spike stood back, stroking himself appraisingly. "Well, seems I was wrong. Maybe men in uniform do turn me on after all …"

Still vulnerable in the after-burn, Riley flashed back to fearful visions he'd had of Spike being raped and abused by his Initiative buddies: maybe the whole platoon. Except this time it wasn't abuse, because Spike was taunting them, like he was taunting him now; revelling in the humiliations heaped upon him by each of them in turn, and being allowed to feed off them as his reward.

In a haze of fury, he grabbed Spike by the shoulder and by the throat. Without a thought for the danger, he thrust Spike through the rotting timber of the nearest mausoleum door. Once inside, he saw some rusting ironwork that looked like just what he needed, and – snorting like an angry bull – he backed Spike up against it and cuffed him to it, arms above his head.

He was entitled to a turn as well.

He ripped Spike's Levis open and grasped him at the root, finding him hard and thrumming with fear and want. Then he was in Spike's face, and snarling. "Men in uniform turn you on?"

Spike tried to shift against the vice-like grip. "Yeah … ow … I mean no …"

He squirmed, but Riley wasn't about to let go. "Which is it?" He pumped Spike once then tightened his grip and twisted.

"One man in uniform," Spike choked out. "Only one."

Riley felt like he was boiling over. The sweat was standing on his brow as he ground out the burning question from the molten heart of his fury. "Which one?"

"You, Finn. Only you."

"That's better." He spat the words out as he released his hold, keeping his eyes locked with Spike's. The rage was still on him, and now the scenes flashing through his mind were showing him what _**he**_ might do to Spike – manacled, chipped and helpless – if he chose.

~~

And Spike saw the same things.

Oh.

So that was how it was.

Again.

Only this time, he deserved it.

He had never felt so tired; so worthless.

~~

In the moonlight coming in through the broken door, Riley read the look of mingled disappointment, resignation, and jaded desire that clouded Spike's face. How had they got to this? It was all going horribly wrong. His anger was quenched in contrition. Maybe Spike had been right about those pills. Shaking his head in denial of what he'd just done – of what he might have done – he unlocked the cuffs, muttering, "I didn't mean …"

Spike rubbed his wrists. "'S okay." He was cold, closed off and sullen, carefully doing up his jeans to cover his erection.

Riley was humble now. "You need more blood? You didn't take much just then –"

"I'm okay."

"Look, I'm sorry. I just thought …"

~~

Spike looked him in the eye, daring him to apologise again; to remind him, again, how vulnerable he was; how much in need – because that would be the very last straw. Clipped and polite, he said, "How about you? You want more? I know I wasn't very nice to you before, and I'm sorry for that."

He dropped to his knees.

"Let me try again. It's the least I can do."

~~

Like he was offering Riley tea and cake.

Like they were strangers.

That hurt worse than the sarcasm.

Riley pulled Spike to his feet again. "Why are you doing this?" he said.

Spike hung like a wrung-out dishrag in Riley's grasp. "Doing what Riley?"

"Shutting me out. I thought –"

"You thought what?" Spike said, sounding almost bored. "What bloody brilliant plan do you have up your sleeve now?"

Riley flinched and swallowed nervously. By way of an answer, he produced a tube of medical lubricant from his pocket and tentatively offered it to Spike.

Spike's jaw went slack. "What's that for then?"

Riley looked at the tube in his outstretched hand. Stolen on impulse, once he had it, he knew exactly what he wanted Spike to do with it. He searched for words, but failed to find any he could speak.

Words didn't fail Spike though. His bored tone gained an edge of steel. "Oh, I get it. Handsome prince rides into town, rescues vampire in distress, vampire rolls over for him?"

"No, I never thought that."

"What then? Gonna perform an internal examination – see if I've nicked anything from your precious lab?"

"No."

Riley closed his eyes in exasperated denial. The words were there now, but wouldn't let themselves be spoken. What he wanted, he wanted so badly they stuck in his throat.

Spike's voice dropped low – cold as the dark side of the moon. "Gonna force yourself on me? I know you thought about it. You know you can. Don't need lube for that. This chip in my head's gonna make me everybody's fuck-toy when word gets around. You might as well take first crack." Spike pursed his lips bitterly. "You earned it."

Riley shied away from the words. He went over to the doorway, and what was left of the door, he threw wide open, kicking out the loose shards of wood. He stood clear. "You just walk out that door any time you want." He swallowed, but the lump in his throat remained. Trying to sound composed and reasonable, he added, "I'll go out first, and check the area's clear for you."

If Spike took him up on the offer – went out that door – Riley thought he would go crazy.

~~

Spike opened his senses to the potent aroma of lust and anxiety evident in Riley's perspiration; his pounding heartbeat; the vehemence of his actions, and at odds with the flat tone of his voice. He hadn't reckoned on the intensity of Riley's emotions; hadn't thought he'd be this upset; hadn't wanted to hurt Riley, not like this.

God knew the kid didn't deserve it.

Fear had done this to them: his fear, of getting hurt again.

Spike took a step towards the open doorway. The light of the full moon streamed in around him, and he wanted to be out in it; out of here, where everything was hard and painful and twisted, just as he'd made it.

The Boy's heart continued to pound; Spike could have heard it a mile away. So he waited, willing Riley to give him a reason to stay.

"This isn't easy for me you know," Riley said tentatively. "It's not like I've ever –"

"Like you've ever what?" Spike threw a lifeline within reach.

Riley snatched at it. "I just thought that you … I just … you must have …"

But then he stood, helpless and dumb like he was cast in stone, one hand outstretched in supplication.

And when Spike looked back, he saw himself; saw himself over a century ago, in a room or a crypt, trembling uncontrollably, watching Angelus standing in an open doorway, just as he was standing now. In those first few years after being turned, he'd played this scene so many times. Angelus would come to his room, send Drusilla away, and demand some service: sometimes sexual, more often just humiliating. When it was over, he would stroke William's cheek or ruffle his hair. Then he would walk slowly towards the door, waiting for William to ask him – beg him – to stay.

And beg he would, finally, as he must: his hands twitching nervously, his eyes lowered.

Once in a blue moon, Angelus would turn round, and spend the night, or an hour, or twenty minutes, making use of him. Making him feel … not loved; not even wanted; favoured, was all; blessed by his master. A hundred other occasions, Angelus would stand there for a moment, relishing the feeling of power; savouring the hope and the fear he could feel and smell coming off William in waves.

Then Angelus would shake his head as though it were the most amusing thing ever.

And then he would leave.

Go to Darla, or both women, or – worst of all – to Drusilla alone.

Leave William wretched and lost.

For a moment, Spike knew how it felt: the whip hand. He could walk out of that door, and leave Riley; just leave him and not look back. He knew he had it in him. For a long moment he considered it; wanted to do it; wanted to walk out, callous and in control, and leave Riley Finn crushed and frustrated, as Angelus had left him so many times, with his head in his hands and his dick swollen with desire.

But he wasn't Angelus.

** _He was not. _ **

He took a deep breath.

The anger and the fear that had almost destroyed him – destroyed what he was and left a monster in his place – fell away.

There was still time to make it better.

"You want me to do you," he said softly. "Is that it?"

Riley nodded mutely and looked away.

Spike took a slow step towards him. "Sure?"

"Yes … please … if … if you want to."

At the admission, Riley's legs gave way, and Spike caught him; lowered him gently to his knees and stroked the boy's cheek as he rested his head against Spike's stomach. And now Riley was hugging his thighs as though to stop him leaving.

Yes, William had done that too.

The fortress walls melted like ice in the sun.

At last, he let himself see what he'd so nearly thrown away.

Riley Finn was beautiful. He could have had anyone he wanted, yet here he was, on his knees to a damaged, deranged vampire, who'd just treated him like he was garbage.

So Spike had to ask him, "Why?"

Riley hung his head. "It's just … I get so tired of being 'The Guy'. Everyone always expects me to be in command of the situation. But I don't want to do that, not any more. Not with you anyway. Not after what's happened to you."

It was an answer, but it wasn't enough, so Spike went on, relentlessly pulling the teeth of the gift horse. "Alright. I get that." He took a deep breath, hardly daring to ask – there were so many wrong answers. "But why me?"

Riley looked up now, starting to take courage; daring to hope that what he said next wouldn't offend. "You looked so lost. I wanted to be the one to find you."

Spike shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, part of him still resisting. "Must be the thrall thing. Maybe I do –"

"No, it's not. It's not thrall." Riley became vehement. "I told you, I'm in love with you. I tried, but I can't stop thinking about you. Even before you fed off me, since that first day, ever since I first saw you."

A slow smile dawned in Spike's eyes. It hadn't been a mistake; he hadn't misread Riley's lips, and Riley hadn't changed his mind. Riley Finn – the only sane person that had ever offered to love him – was going to get something for it: something other than pain.

Spike pushed Riley down, and sat astride his thighs, holding his face with both hands and kissing him with hunger and passion untainted by fear. Tears of relief welled in Riley's eyes, and Spike kissed them away. He managed to stop kissing him for long enough to strip off Riley's flak jacket and tee shirt, then he had to stop again.

He breathed out, "God, you're a piece of work."

He had never seen Riley Finn out of uniform. He ran his hands over flesh like fine sandstone honed by centuries of hot desert winds, hard and smooth; flesh that was warm and humming for the want of him.

In all his life, he had never known anything to compare to this.

When he and Dru had flirted with their food, it had never gone further than foreplay before one of them got hungry. Drusilla had loved him in her way, but part of her had always belonged to Angelus. Angelus had used him.

Now Spike felt like he was kissing the sun.

Breathing so hard he was almost sobbing, Riley spread his arms wide and closed his eyes as Spike pressed kisses, reverent and profane, across his chest, down his flanks and lower.

"I've never done this before," Riley fearfully confessed.

Spike looked up with wide, wild eyes. "Me neither."

He tried to push Riley to the stone floor, but Riley said, "Wait!" – and stumbled to the doorway of the mausoleum.

A panicked, "Don't go –" died on Spike's lips when he realised Riley was just blocking the doorway with a slab of stone. To his amazement, Riley then dragged a packet out of his fatigues, and opened it into a groundsheet the size of a double bed.

Looking apologetic Riley said, "Standard kit."

They came back together like opposite poles, and made full use of it, whimpering with every touch, as though all their lives, long or short, they had been waiting for this moment. Spike felt almost shamed by it, but it was okay, it was okay, because Riley was doing it too.

They fumbled and tore at each other's clothes; couldn't wait, couldn't take it slowly – didn't know how – so the first time, even with the lube, it hurt; it hurt both of them. Riley bit his lip and drew blood, and Spike would have pulled out, but that Riley said, "No, please –" with such despair – such fear that he was letting Spike down – that it was enough to make Spike come, hard and painfully.

Spike closed his eyes and dropped his head to Riley's shoulder, murmuring, "Sorry, sweetheart …"

~~

Riley drew in a sudden breath at the unhoped-for endearment, and closed his eyes; he wanted to hold the moment inside and keep it forever.

Then Spike was licking the blood from his mouth, and then – Riley's eyes flew open; he held his breath and stared at the ceiling as Spike moved down to that other place where he had bled, and tended him with kisses, licks, soft caresses, feather-stroking his cock and Riley came with a shocked cry, out of control, and then was quickly hard again because Spike was still tonguing and nudging and kissing him – _there_ – and this kind of thing happened to other people … but – oh – it was almost more than he could take.

He cried out again, "Oh no …"

But his shame was assuaged by Spike's mouth. Oh. Spike didn't mind that this was turning him on. Spike wanted him this way.

Between snatched breaths, he asked, "I don't mind, but, does it always hurt? The … penetration part?"

~~

Spike didn't know. Angelus had never taken care of him; never made any effort not to hurt him; liked hurting him, truth be told.

But Spike would be damned if he couldn't do a whole lot better.

As he looked at Riley – for once so uncertain, and yet so trusting of him – he felt a tenderness the like of which he'd never felt before. No one had ever wanted that from him. "Maybe it doesn't have to hurt, not if you want it enough," he said softly. "Guess I'll have to try a bit harder. Make you want it more."

He slid his middle finger between Riley's lips, once, twice, and Riley obeyed the unspoken command to coat it with saliva. Spike felt his heart clench as he watched Riley spread himself – his eyes wide as a fawn's, with anticipation and a little fear, in the knowledge of where that finger was going next – spread himself, _for him; beneath him._

He stroked the furrow between Riley's thighs. Riley flexed under his touch, breathing hard. Spike caressed the entrance, soothing him – "Yeah … beautiful …" – and as he felt his man relax, he slipped the finger in; found and stroked the sweet spot.

Riley moaned softly.

A church bell chimed, midnight.

~~

Spike froze. Then he withdrew, and the deprivation left Riley bereft and ready to beg.

But Spike was wide-eyed; panicked. "Jesus, Finn, what the fuck are we playing at? Your lot – they'll be out looking for me. For _**us**_. They're bound to sweep the cemeteries."

"Spike, it's okay, it's full moon, remember?" Riley said, anxious to reassure him – to get back to the only thing that mattered, because who knew how long he had, to keep Spike from upping and leaving him. "All the crazies come out on full moon. The Initiative will be up to its neck in false alarms about wannabe werewolves and vampires." Seeing Spike was unconvinced, he tried again, though it was hard to focus. "They're short-handed anyway. Some of the guys have already gone home for Thanksgiving, and the six I took out won't be fit for duty tonight."

Only a little calmed by this, and breathing deeply to control his nerves, Spike looked down on him with concerned, lustrous eyes. "Riley, if they saw you like this … I'd …"

The reminder that a patrol could bust in on them at any moment, and Spike's desperate concern, for his – Riley's – dignity rather than his own safety, shot a jolt like electricity from Riley's dick straight to his heart. He pulled Spike towards him, and kissed him with fierce gratitude.

Then he stretched an arm out and reached into his pack, got out a radio, and flicked it on, to receive only. "Okay. Now we can listen in on their messages. If they're coming after us, we'll know about it."

Spike shook his head stubbornly. "Turn the sound down, so only I can hear it."

Riley was confused. "Wouldn't it be better if we were both listening out?"

Spike frowned as he thought about it. "No. Turn it down low. I don't want you listenin' to those wankers. Not while we're …" his head tilted and his eyes shone "… makin' love."

Spike pressed his cool weight down onto Riley's thighs, spreading him further, pinning him down, kissing him till he could hardly breathe, hands everywhere again, but this time worshipping him, gentling him, giving his cock all the attention it needed; rubbing his chest against it, moaning as he remembered his earlier cruelty, and murmuring, "Riley, I'm so sorry, so sorry."

He raised himself on his arms, dipping his head to sweep the glistening head of Riley's cock with his tongue. Riley closed his eyes blissfully; jerked, on the edge. Spike slicked him once again with US Special Forces-approved lubricant, then pushed inside him, easier this time; holding Riley back, but only until he was ready to start moving, lazily, like the tide on the shore.

It took a moment and forever for the waves to finish breaking.

 

** _"'As for me, I am concerned with matters of consequence.'" _ **

Maggie Walsh stood alone at her whiteboard, tapping irritably on it with a red marker pen.

It was midnight.

The base was virtually deserted.

Tonight had been an unmitigated disaster.

The men on guard duty – all of whom had failed to report in at 19:30 – had eventually been found trussed up and chloroformed, and were now in the medical unit receiving treatment. All the remaining available men had been sent out on various missions, all of which had so far been spectacularly unsuccessful

Hostile Seventeen had escaped, selfishly taking her only proto-type behaviour modification chip with it. This was not only annoying and expensive, but it had caused considerable embarrassment to Maggie personally, as well as to the operation as a whole. It made them all appear rank amateurs. The truck from Nevada had left empty, apart from some amused-looking flatfoots who said they were under strict orders to return immediately, with or without the chipped vampire. No doubt any potential increase in her research grant had left with it.

Of the Polgara she craved – reported by person or persons unknown, on a radio that had earlier been reported lost by one of the soldiers – there had been no sign, despite extensive sweeps of the area where it had been sighted.

Werewolves, however – reported only a short time later, possibly by the same person, though on a different radio, and from a different location – seemed to be out in force all over Sunnydale, but none had yet been taken alive, killed, or even injured so far as she could gather. Perhaps there was something in that mumbo-jumbo about silver bullets after all.

But worst of all, there was no sign of Riley Finn. Her right hand man was missing at her hour of need. It was either tragic or unforgivable; time would tell which. He hadn't reported in for duty, and he hadn't answered calls on his radio or his pager; in fact, no one could recall having seen him since lunchtime. She feared the worst. He had always been her most competent demon-fighter; but there was always a risk …

She sighed and drew circles on her board, allotting one to each disturbing or annoying occurrence, trying to see a pattern other than the obvious one.

It appeared that Hostile Seventeen must have had an accomplice on the outside, who had somehow contrived at least some of these events, to aid its escape. If that were so, the degree of co-operation between individual HSTs, and apparently even between different species – vampire, werewolves, and possibly Polgara – was unprecedented in her experience. How they had co-ordinated their activities was also a mystery. Perhaps some research on telepathic abilities among sub-terrestrials was needed. Where was she was likely to get a grant for that? Fortean times perhaps?

Mercifully, Dr Angleman's arrival interrupted this speculative train of thought.

"Er, Professor Walsh, four of the men who were on guard duty have recovered sufficiently to tell us something about what happened."

She cocked her head. "Well?"

"Um, well, three of them were bludgeoned from behind – knocked unconscious before they were chloroformed, and didn't see their attacker."

Maggie sighed, exasperated. "And the fourth?"

Angleman shifted uncomfortably. "You won't like it when you hear what Mason said."

"I'm a scientist, Dr Angleman. I am interested in the truth."

"He said Agent Finn attacked him." The doctor winced in anticipation of her reply. "With a taser."

Maggie blanched with anger at the suggestion of Riley's disloyalty, but at the same time, she felt a surge of relief. If this were true, Riley was not among the night's casualties. "Mason must be lying. Why would Agent Finn do such a thing?"

"He doesn't know why. Said Agent Finn just walked up to him, greeted him, then hit him with the taser. He'd been chloroformed as well, but that was afterwards."

Maggie considered. "Do we have any corroboration for his story?"

"No. He was on his own. The other two, Jay Williams and Mike Doberman are still out for the count. And Williams has some broken ribs, as well as a nasty taser burn."

Tumblers started to click into place in Professor Walsh's head. She looked at her whiteboard. She'd noticed that Riley had been a little erratic, but she hadn't yet had time to do anything about it. Clearly his relations with his inferior officers must have suffered more than she'd realised.

Her boy had cracked under the pressure.

It was unfortunate that he'd chosen this night, of all nights, to break down. Riley would have captured that Polgara for her. He would have made her proud, of that she had no doubt. He was her main priority, now, as always; her mission.

"Put a call out to all patrols. If Agent Finn is sighted, his location is to be reported to me, immediately. He is to be treated with utmost respect. He is not to be harmed in any way. He is to be brought in, but with the absolute minimum of force, I want no mistakes about that."

"At once Professor."

"And keep Mason in isolation. It would be bad for morale if word got around that Agent Finn is malfu– … is responsible for attacking his own men."

"I'll make sure he speaks to no one," Angleman assured her. He backed out of the room, leaving Maggie Walsh alone with her diagram.

 

_ **"'I am thirsty for this water,' said the little prince." ** _

They lay in the clinch, not willing to let it be over; to let the aftershocks subside.

Riley was the first to try and gently disentangle himself. "Let me go Spike."

"Make me." Spike clung on to him, lazy and seductive.

Riley laughed, struggling out of Spike's paws, and reaching over towards his flak jacket. "Just for a moment," he assured him. "You won't regret it."

Intrigued, Spike watched Riley rummaging in the pockets of his jacket.

With a "Hah!" of triumph, Riley tossed a pack of cigarettes at him.

In spite of his surprise, Spike caught it, and the box of matches that followed soon after. He stared at the items in wonder, then feigning horror, said, "Riley, you smoke after sex?"

Riley smirked innocently. "Well, no, but I smoulder a little."

Spike shook his head in mock-sadness at the trotting out of such an old chestnut.

"I bet you do though," Riley said. "Smoke after sex, that is."

"You psychic?" Spike asked, taking a sly look him.

"Elementary," Riley said, with something approaching smug. "Your fingers are stained, and you keep patting yourself down like you're looking for something."

Laughing – really laughing – for the first time in how long he couldn't recall, Spike opened the pack and took out one of the magic sticks. "Not my brand of course," he lied smoothly.

"Sorry. I didn't know what kind you'd want. I just picked a brand the tough guys smoke," Riley dead-panned in return.

Huh! Seemed like the kid could give as good as he got. Spike cuffed Riley affectionately. "Actually it is my brand. You _must_ be bloody psychic."

He got out a match, but his hands were shaking so much as he struck it that it tumbled, sputtering, to the stone floor.

Riley was concerned. "Hey, you really need a smoke that bad?"

"No," Spike said, his voice thick with emotion. "Need you though."

He lit another match. He was trying not to let Riley see the tears about to fall, but the comforting familiarity of the act – the ritual of lighting up and taking that first hit of nicotine – took down his remaining defences. His face crumpled. He choked as he tried to take a calming drag on the cigarette, and hid his face in his hands.

Riley was back at his side in a heartbeat, wrapping his strong arms around him, holding him close while the sobs shook him, and not loosing his hold until they had subsided.

Finally struggling free, Spike rubbed a hand across eyes that were tired and sore with weeping. "Sorry. It's been one of those days."

"For me too." Riley's reply was heartfelt.

"I know it. Appreciate it."

Hardly daring to hope – but you don't get nothing if you don't ask – Spike said, "I don't suppose you happen to have an honour bar in one of those pockets?"

Smoothly, Riley produced a hip flask. "Whiskey okay for you?"

Spike laughed out loud through the last of his tears.

 

_ **"'The grown-ups are certainly altogether extraordinary …'" ** _

By 3 am, Jay had regained consciousness, and Professor Walsh had questioned him at length concerning his account of events.

She was less than pleased to learn that most of the responsibility for the night's debacle could be laid at Riley's door. It appeared that he had been working with the HST, to help it escape. Riley had betrayed his oaths, betrayed the Initiative, and worst of all, betrayed her, personally.

The only good thing about it was that none of the casualties – including Jay – had been bitten; the behaviour modification chip worked; Jay had confirmed that Hostile Seventeen was unable to fight or bite without pain.

The bad news – well, she hadn't yet made up her mind about that. She had speculated that the demon extracts she had covertly injected into Riley and included in his 'vitamins' might cause him to answer to some call in the captive population at the base – feel some affinity – and it had always been a possibility that the steroids would make him unstable. But this was way beyond anything she had expected or planned for.

She ordered all patrols except those actively following a hard target to return to base, and called Riley's closest known associates – Forrest Gates and Graham Miller – into her office.

Graham seemed unable or unwilling to provide any information. All he claimed to know was that Forrest and Riley didn't seem to be getting along as well as they used to, and it was upsetting the smooth operation of the team. She could tell he knew more than that, but he was as tight as a clam's ass.

Forrest, on the other hand, seemed to have no such scruples – now.

~~

"Sure, Riley Finn's soft on that HST, Hostile Seventeen. Everybody knows, ma'am."

"**_Everybody_** knows?" She pierced him with an eagle's stare. "So why did no one see fit to inform **_me_** of this **_very significant _**development?"

Forrest was silent.

** _ "Well?" _ **

"It's not the kind of thing you talk about with –" He was going to say, 'women', but looked at her and thought better of it; he settled for: "– with civilians."

"I am in charge of this operation. Everything is to be reported to me, do you understand? **_Everything_**. Especially anything pertaining to officers … fraternising with the HSTs, do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am." Forrest was getting sick of being reprimanded on account of Riley's aberrations.

"Fine. Well, I'm putting you in charge of finding Agent Finn, and bringing him back. **_Safely. _** Hostile Seventeen is also to be brought in if possible, _**alive. **_"

Forrest shifted uneasily.

"I don't want any further slip-ups, do you understand?" she said sharply. "I want that Hostile alive, and if possible undamaged. It's got my chip in its head."

"Yes Ma'am."

"And Agent Gates?"

"Ma'am?"

She looked him in the eye. "Make me proud."


	6. Running Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parting of the Ways

** _"'We have wakened the well, and it is singing …'"_ **

The radio had gone so quiet that Spike had forgotten all about it. Both he and Riley slept peacefully for the first time in days; it seemed like it was just for a few moments. Spike was the first to awake. He drew in a breath of relief as he remembered where he was, and who lay beside him. He felt light; weak; newborn. Still relaxed from the whiskey and the catharsis of tears, he leaned up on his elbow and gazed searchingly at Riley's face.

Riley remained stubbornly dormant, so Spike started walking the fingers of his left hand down the smooth expanse of Riley's chest.

At the light touches on his ribs, Riley blinked awake and smiled.

~~

Spike looked as though he had something to say, and Riley was fully attentive in an instant. "Anything you want – just ask."

"I know what you said, but …"

The anxious, hopeful look that Spike gave Riley turned his insides to butter; Riley sat up and leaned towards Spike. "What is it, Spike? Tell me."

The words came out in a rush. "I don't suppose you want to be 'The Guy' for me? Just this once …?"

"You want me to …"

When he realised what Spike was asking of him, Riley felt light-headed. It was the last thing he'd expected, but yeah, he wanted it; of course he did. It wasn't a macho thing; it was just that now he knew how it felt, he wanted Spike to feel the same – and to be the cause of it. But, God … after what Spike had been through, it was a big responsibility.

He took a deep breath, and said, "Well, if you're sure, I can give it a try. Probably make a hash of it. But Spike, you've had so many people doing … stuff to you, stuff you didn't want, stuff that hurt you. I don't want to be one of them." He stole a nervous glance at Spike. "Don't ever want to be one of them."

"And you won't," Spike insisted. "Not now we've got things sorted."

Riley flinched at the gentle reminder of how he'd lost control – used his cuffs last night to restrain Spike, even though it was only for a moment. "You're damn right I won't. But I don't want to take any chances. If I upset you again, hurt you, even by accident …"

Spike was silent; waiting; looking a little sad.

Riley reached over and very softly stroked his cheekbone; Spike closed his eyes in feline contentment, pressing into his hand. And Riley relented. How could he not? He could do this. And he was gonna do it right. "Okay, sure," he said.

He didn't feel sure; he felt petrified. Maybe rather than going in cold, he could buy some time to get used to the idea.

"I'll feel better about it if you'll let me check you over first. I should have done that anyway. That's what field training in First Aid is for."

Yeah, he could stall with the best of them.

"I couldn't forgive myself if I made things worse. But if you let me find out whether you're in any kind of shape for it, then we'll see. Is that a deal?"

Spike saluted. "Sir! Yes, Sir!" He was smug now that he'd got his way, lounging back and looking at Riley from under his lashes. "What must I do?"

"Nothing," Riley said, laughing a little at the sex-kitten act. "Just lie back, let me do the work, and tell me if anything hurts, anything at all."

Then Riley got to his knees beside Spike, and began systematically checking every part of Spike's body, feeling for bruises and fractures. This wasn't too hard. Just have to think of Spike as one of his horses that had taken a fall back home on the farm.

Well, it was a start anyway.

~~

Spike watched, frowning slightly as Riley's expert hands roamed over his body, feeling along his bones for breaks and checking his joints for mobility and swelling. In truth, it was a little embarrassing, having so much attention focussed on him – on his well-being.

"You plan on cataloguing me for the benefit of science?" he enquired mildly.

Riley just snorted and went on with his 'examination'. If Spike gave the slightest flinch, he would stop at once, to anoint any visible injuries – bruises and cuts – with aromatic stuff from his kit, and to plant a gentle kiss on any hurts.

"Hmmm …" Spike murmured. "That's actually working."

Riley chuckled. "Of course," he said.

And sometimes when Spike made little sounds of pain, or twitched on contact, it was just because he wanted to feel those lips against his skin once more.

When Riley's capable hands began investigating his groin to see whether anything was strained, Spike smirked and said, "If this is First Aid, I'm a monkey's uncle."

"How is that nephew of yours," Riley said, without a trace of expression in his voice. "Cheetah, isn't it?"

"Cheetah was an ape," Spike shot back.

Then Riley applied a gentle squeeze that made Spike flex and bite his lip, and decide to be good from now on; let Iowa Boy do it his way. Riley certainly seemed to know what he was about, taking special care as he worked those hands over Spike's upper body, checking on how the ribs were healing. Spike was only too aware that his torso was an embarrassing disaster area; a pitted and cratered ruin, wasted by the past week's duress, and patterned with scars from the operation and from the holy water.

When Riley clicked his tongue, shaking his head in sorrow and anger at some of the injuries, Spike was moved to comfort him. "It's okay Riley, it will all heal. The holy water takes the longest, but it will heal okay. Good as new."

Riley said simply, "Your body will, sure."

At last Spike began to feel his inhibitions drifting away. Now Riley was doing things to his feet that shouldn't have that effect on a bloke; but Riley didn't seem to find anything odd about this, so why should he? "I could get used to this pampering," he said, as Riley's hands slid up his thighs.

Riley looked up and met his gaze. "You'd better," he said.

Apparently satisfied with his investigation, Riley kissed Spike on the mouth and said, "I'd like you to turn over now. I need to check your back."

Riley was so naïve – there couldn't be any double meaning to that, could there?

Spike did as he was bid and rolled onto his front. He put his head on his hands. He tried to stay relaxed. It was a little thing, but the act of turning over felt like yet another level of surrender.

Riley patted him on the shoulder. "I can't see your face now, so I'm going to be checking with you all the time. If I do anything that hurts, or makes you uncomfortable, you let me know, okay?"

"Yes." Spike heard his own voice came out hoarse with arousal.

"Promise?" Riley said. "I'm not going to do anything without your say-so."

Spike nodded, but said nothing; his throat was tight.

"Not enough." Riley was commanding. "I need to hear it."

Spike felt a thrill run through him, and whispered a breathless, "Yes."

"Okay then."

And Spike really wasn't used to it, and probably never would be: the sensation of someone taking care of him and nothing more. But here and now he soaked it up like a tree in a parched land soaks up a sudden rain. He let Riley take possession of him; take him to a place where he felt only barely connected to his body, blissed-out and transported, coming into being only where Riley was touching him, and letting all the rest go, until he was nothing but that Riley made him so; nothing but a gentle, soothing caress.

As time went on, Riley's innocent touches grew more teasing, but Spike had to school his responses because any sound he made – any whimper or gasp that wasn't clearly an affirmative – would stop Riley in an instant until Spike managed to get out a desperate, 'Yes,' or 'Go on,' giving him leave to continue.

A hand kneading the back of his neck made him feel weak as a kitten. A finger trailing down his spine and stopping just short of the mark made him arch his back, offering. Possessive palms pressing down on his buttocks, laying him open to Riley's gaze dragged a low moan from his throat.

Riley drew in a sharp breath and released him.

It was frustrating in the best possible way: trying to prolong every touch, arching to follow Riley's hands, squirming when contact was denied, and pressing himself flat to the groundsheet for the scant relief the friction brought him.

Riley was patient; too patient; always asking permission to touch him: 'May I?', 'Is that okay?', 'You like that?" Giving his violated body back to him, over and over again until Spike was ready to cede control for all eternity, if Riley would just, keep, touching him.

And just when Spike thought he might come just from the feel of Riley's hand on the back of his thigh, the contact became more intimate. A thumb pressed to his lips demanding entrance, then rubbed wetly across a nipple – "Yes …" A gentle bite where his neck and shoulder joined – "Oh, yes …" A hand reaching between his legs to briefly caress his balls, and then under him – "Please …"

Riley strung him out like a wire, tightening between Riley's constant assurances, giving him control, and Spike's own willing submissions: "Please –" "Yes –" "God, Riley –"

It was too much. Riley's hands, big strong hands stroking, controlling; the warm friction of Riley's thigh pressing up tightly between his own; the weight of Riley's dick brushing across him and the anticipation of it inside him; Spike could take no more, and raised his hips begging, "Come on Riley, fuck me."

~~

Riley shuddered. A flush of pride raced through him, setting every cell and nerve ending on fire. Spike was on his knees and forearms before him, open for him, waiting and crying out for Riley to fill him; the sinews in his pale thighs were taut and shaking with tension and want.

It was more than he had dared to hope for, yet he balked; shook his head. "I can't –"

His refusal shocked Spike like a blow. Thwarted desire brought his game-face crackling to the surface. He uttered a keening whine – almost a howl – and there were tears of frustration, of humiliation, standing in the yellowed eyes.

"I will, Spike, I promise," Riley said hastily. "I want to. I do."

He kissed Spike's demon face, beautiful in its feral desperation. He cut his tongue on the fangs, but didn't pull back. Holding his breath, because the very act felt like a sacrament, he used both hands to caress Spike's ass; his balls; his erection, all tight and ripe. That this was for him – that at his touch, such an indescribable cry of need rose in Spike's throat – it made his heart pound as if it might burst.

"I want to. But not like this … like dogs. We're not dogs. We're human beings."

Spike's demon wanted to deny it but Riley pressed a finger to Spike's lips. "Yes, you know what Spike? We're all human. I don't give a damn that you're a vampire and I'm probably chock full of demon parts. We're all human, me, you, dogs as well for all I know. And I want to see your face when we do this. Whichever one you're wearing."

Moaning now with relief, Spike rolled his head to the side, baring his throat and collapsing to the floor, brow-ridges fading, fangs retracting.

"Come on then," he growled softly. "I invite you in."

~~

Heavy-lidded and submissive with desire, Spike stroked himself, watching breathlessly as Riley slicked himself with lube; wondering at the intense concentration on Riley's face, and the careful movement of that muscular forearm between his thighs, as Riley used one and then two fingers to prepare him – to make sure he didn't injure him.

But Spike was more than ready: shuddering, dissolving inside, even before Riley entered him, and when saw the look in Riley Finn's eyes and felt the burn and press and shower of sparks as Riley eased home at last, Spike arched and came at once, his body melting around Riley's, as cold and close as quicksilver.

Oh! It didn't have to hurt; it didn't have to hurt at all.

And he clung to this man – this one who had saved him – as though he were his last hope, moaning, "Don't stop … love … Oh! I love you …"

~~

Riley would have taken death at that moment, over any future he could forsee.

**Day 10**

_"'But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened …'" _

Most of the men had been patrolling since 20:00 hours – some of them even longer – and they were all pretty ragged, but it wasn't over yet. When all the teams had returned to base, Forrest had them assemble, and briefed them on the mission.

The search pattern was simple. Based on the assumption that cemeteries were Hostile 17's most likely hide-outs, Forrest told the teams to start with the graveyards at the outer edges of Sunnydale and work inwards, checking every accessible crypt and mausoleum, as well as any caves or abandoned buildings in the area. The targets were known to have access to at least one communication device, so for the element of surprise, radio silence was to be maintained. That meant each team was on its own, at least until Riley Finn and Hostile 17 were discovered.

Forrest was careful to mention that the Professor wanted both Agent Finn and Hostile Seventeen alive, but he wasn't too specific about what condition the HST had to be in. The official line was that Hostile 17 had taken Riley Finn hostage. Choosing to believe it, the men set about the laborious task of finding them with a will. After all, they were bringing home one of their own.

There were plenty of false alarms. Forrest's team alone startled – and warned off – a number of human adolescents, having parties or having sex in the spooky unofficial hangouts. They interrupted a drug deal in an old warehouse, but the miscreants bolted and Forrest elected to let them escape; the Mission was what mattered. They also discovered two obvious – but currently unoccupied – vampire nests. The vamps must still be out hunting. They tagged the nests for future sterilisation.

It was Forrest's first stint in charge of his team, but they all knew the drill, so they didn't need to talk much. In the grey pre-dawn light, Graham, who was on scanning detail, tapped Forrest on the arm, pointed and whispered, "Two hard targets, one warm, one cold."

Forrest took the viewer. The air went out of him at what he saw, and he sucked in an angry breath. Two interlocked bodies: one glowing with heat from the core, the other dark, but brightly outlined. In the early hours as he'd tried to sleep, he'd imagined this scene more times than he cared to remember, but the Yin part of the picture hadn't been an HST. He was glad that the danger of alerting their targets prevented them from calling for back-up. Somehow, it would have made it worse if the rest of the platoon were to see in Technicolor, what he was now seeing in black and white.

"We get Riley out. The HST dies. Blow its head off or cut it off; pull it off with your bare hands if you have to. We tell the Professor the chip failed to activate and it attacked Riley. There was no alternative. We clear?"

"You bet!" Kevin said. He had no qualms about rewriting history in advance. Graham looked doubtful, but nodded assent when he saw he was out-voted.

"Okay – here's what we do."

 

** _"'… I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.'" _ **

Riley gazed down on Spike as he slept. He looked really messed-up: his face, gaunt with hunger and his eyes still red and puffy from excess of emotion. His body was scarred and his ribs stood out painfully. His hair, matted – frazzled – had lost the brilliant shine it had when he was first captured. His cheekbone was still bruised.

Riley wondered if it was a bad, sick side of him that thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. He was dazed and speechless about last night's events; he was tired; relieved; grateful; incredulous.

He was in love.

He thought about the girls in college, with their bright smiles, their bouncy hair; their overweening confidence in themselves and in the future. He couldn't believe that only a couple of weeks ago, he'd been thinking of asking Buffy Summers on a date.

Now, he wondered what he'd ever seen in her.

Popcorn: that's he saw when he looked at Buffy.

If Spike was a food, what would he be? He mulled the question without finding an answer. It would be something bittersweet.

Spike was sleeping so seraphically that it almost broke Riley's heart to think of waking him. But it must be getting near dawn, and it was vital that they not get trapped in this mausoleum for the whole day. He thought he heard a cock crow in the distance; then he was sure he heard an answering call.

And another.

Who knew there were free-range chickens in Sunnydale?

He could see his watch lying just a few inches from his fingertips. He stretched, trying to reach it.

Spike stirred and reached an arm over him, pulling him back into his embrace and murmuring, "Stay."

Riley stroked his hair. "We have to go," he said gently.

Spike must have misheard him. His eyes opened wide, naked with fear of abandonment. "Don't leave –"

"No, _we_ have to go," Riley quickly reassured him. "It's nearly light. We need to get you someplace safe." He shook his head at his laxness. "We're lucky they haven't found us already."

"Maybe they've given up," Spike said with a hopeful look. "Decided to let me go into the wild?"

Riley shook his head sadly. "They won't give up, not this easily. They need you for their –" he flinched and bit his lip, shaking his head again. "Whatever."

He got up and started pulling on his fatigues.

"Haven't heard anything on the radio," Spike said.

Riley looked at Spike indulgently. "That's worrying in itself. There's always traffic unless they're deliberately in silent-running mode. Anyway, you've been asleep, how would you know?"

"Vampire senses are always finely tuned," Spike countered, huffing a little; but he too was now getting into his jeans. They were both still zipping and buttoning up when there was a crash of masonry.

A shaft of pale dawn light streamed in through the entrance to the crypt, and on it rode a standard patrol of three commandos, their tasers scanning the room.

Riley shoved Spike into his shadow and stood between him and the Initiative patrol.

Having failed to cover Spike with his weapon, Forrest raised a hand in a pacifying gesture. "It's okay Riley man, this is a rescue mission. We're here to get you out."

~~

Spike kept quiet. He was praying that Riley could get them both out of this, but Forrest looked ready to do bloody murder, so he held himself ready to bolt.

"It's fine, Forrest," Riley said, trying to finesse his former comrade. "I don't need rescuing. The situation, and this Hostile are under control."

"'Under control'?" Forrest spat, quickly losing his own. "You call fu… what you've been doin' with that Hostile bein' 'under control'? Man, you are so far out from under control, you're practically in Vancouver."

Riley flashed Forrest an innocent, friendly smile, raised both hands, took a step forward and struck Forrest hard and square on the jaw with the heel of his palm, ripping the weapon out of the man's grip as he went down.

As Kevin and Graham fanned apart, trying to get a clear shot at Spike, Riley aimed the weapon at Kevin. "Spike goes down, so do you," he said bluntly.

Kevin and Graham exchanged a confused look. "Take it easy man," Graham began. "The Professor knows you've been under a lot of pressure. She just wants you to come home, get some rest …"

Forrest began to stir, and Riley casually tasered him with his own weapon.

Graham shot him a worried, appraising glance, and went on, "Like I said, she just wants us to bring you in so you can get some R and R, calm things down –"

"What about this man?" Riley demanded, indicating Spike.

Spike felt a pang of gratitude. Riley, at least, had the decency to call him a man.

"What do you care?" Kevin blurted. "It's an HST. A **_vampire_**. We take it back to the lab where it bel-"

"No! He's under my protection."

Spike closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Desperate as this moment was, he never wanted forget it.

Graham looked troubled. "Come on man, you've had your bit of skanky fun, or whatever. It happens. Professor can overlook that. Don't have to go all 'Pretty Woman' over it."

Graham took a few steps towards Riley, and at the same time, Spike noticed Kevin slowly edging around, trying to get him in his sights. Spike moved to put Riley between himself and Kevin once more, and Riley took note of the manoeuvrings.

"As you were, Soldier!"

Kevin aborted the move, but Graham – clearly uncomfortable – said, "Sorry, Riley, but you can't give orders just now." He stood straight. "I'm afraid I have to inform you that you have been temporarily relieved of command, pending a full medical and psychological work-up."

~~

"There's nothing wrong with me," Riley said with total certainty.

He was standing in a mausoleum at dawn, training a weapon on his own men in defence of his vampire lover. Something might be wrong with this picture, but he knew damn well it wasn't him. He just needed to buy some time.

"Fine," he said. "I'll come in with you."

He glanced back at Spike. Spike mouthed an urgent, but silent, 'No' but Riley couldn't see that he had much choice. If he took out either Graham or Kevin, the other one would get a shot at him, and then Spike would be taken.

"I'll come in with you and straighten things out. But there's a condition attached. No one's to interfere with Hostile 17. He's no danger to the public, not any more."

Riley was subject to another appraising look from Graham. "So, how do you account for those?" Graham said, indicating bruises and puncture wounds on Riley's still-naked upper torso.

Riley straightened. "I don't. I don't have to, not to you."

Graham looked wounded. None of this was his fault: not really. Graham was a bit of a loner; he probably didn't know much about what had gone down over the past few days; he was the only one of Riley's close associates whose friendship he would actually miss, so Riley tried to take a little of the harshness from his tone as he said, "Move out Graham, I'll be with you shortly." He looked at Forrest still laid out on the ground. "And take**_ that_** with you."

Despite what Graham had said about Riley's lack of authority, both he and Kevin instinctively moved to obey. They took Forrest by the shoulders and hauled him out of the crypt.

~~

When Graham called in to report that they'd found Riley, the first thing Professor Walsh asked him was, "Has he been turned?"

"No Professor. He showed up warm on the scanner." Graham was surprised at the question, but he was even more puzzled by the disappointed-sounding silence that followed his reply.

Finally she said, "Call for back-up. All teams are to report to you. I'm sure I don't need to repeat myself, but I will. I want Agent Finn taken unharmed. And bring the Hostile in undamaged, if you can."

"Er, Professor, Agent Finn is trying to protect the HST. He may make it difficult for us. And it looks like he has been bitten, though not seriously."

~~

Maggie had already considered the potential of Riley Finn as a vampire. He would be formidable. And she would be able to control him, she was confident of that. Having one of her own boys turned deliberately was a step too far, even for her, but – well, these things happened. Or in this case, clearly, they didn't. For some reason, this vampire hadn't turned Riley; just nibbled on him.

Of course it hadn't turned him. It made perfect sense, when she thought about it. Now the vampire was chipped, it would need to feed off animal blood, or find willing victims. Apparently it had already found one. Why Riley would go along with such a scenario was beyond her comprehension. No wonder it had recovered from the surgery. Well, it wasn't going to leech off Riley Finn any longer: not if she had anything to do with it.

"Well, you may stun Agent Finn if you have to – but lightly. I don't want him harmed. I suppose it's not a disaster if you don't recapture Hostile Seventeen immediately. The fact that Agent Finn is still alive tells me that my behaviour modification chip works. We'll deal with the HST later. Just bring Agent Finn home. **_Safely_**."

 

** _"'Don't linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!'" _ **

Riley knew that Graham was sure to have radioed for back-up as soon as he got outside; that couldn't be helped. He could deal with that. But there were things that were going to be harder to deal with now; much harder.

Spike was leaning awkwardly against the ironwork, failing miserably in his attempt to look casual as he waited for Riley to throw him a bone. But all Riley could do was stand there, looking at him – too full to speak.

Spike finally broke the silence. "So, is this goodbye then?"

Riley wanted so much to reassure him; tell him they could be together. There could be fairytale endings, couldn't there? Otherwise, why did anyone bother to live at all? But the way was dark; he couldn't see what lay ahead; didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep.

With shaking hands, Spike lit up one of the cigarettes that had naturally migrated to his pockets. He took a drag from it; studied the burning tip cupped in his hand as though against the wind; stared at it like he'd never seen one before.

Riley was torn up. Maybe it was the romantic in him, but he hadn't wanted to believe what Spike had said last night; that there was no future for them. He was starting to believe it now.

He took a step towards Spike – went to kiss him – but Spike backed up, swatting at him ineffectually and turning his head away.

Riley too, turned away in misery, saying, "This is my fault. I should have got us moving sooner. I was stupid. So now I have to go back, Spike. I have to, if that's the price of your freedom, your life. And it's starting to look that way."

Spike shook his head. "How can it be your fault?" he said. "I'm a grown-up too, remember? We're both bloody stupid. Only I'm a hundred years older than you, so if anyone's to blame it's me."

"No!" Riley said. Again, he went to Spike.

Again Spike shrugged away from him, but then gripped his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Riley, you can't go back. What you've done – it's a court martial offence." There was a rising note of panic in his voice. "A lot more than one, actually, what with attacking your comrades and helping me escape. They're not just going to throw away the key." He let go of Riley, turned his back and took another defeated drag on the cigarette. "Turn yourself in and you'll probably be shot. Or worse." Spike hugged his coat around himself.

"I don't think so, Spike. You heard what Graham said, 'a bit of R &amp; R', that's all."

It sounded unlikely even to Riley's ears. They wouldn't be sending him to Hawaii, he was sure of that. Spike didn't believe it either; he was still shaking his head, like a neurotic bear in a pit.

Riley tried again. "They won't kill me. They'd have killed us both already if they didn't want me alive. You said it yourself, the worst they'll do is put me on some punishment duties. I'm human, remember? Besides, they've spent too much money on my training to throw it all away."

~~

Spike wished they'd taken a hostage, but there was no way Riley would have been okay with that. There'd been one to hand; Forrest had been laid out at his feet, and he'd let the man be taken away; now they were short on options. "Couldn't we both make a break for it?" he suggested.

"Spike, you can't fight, and there's only one of me. I'm good, but I'm not Superman." Riley looked embarrassed at the admission. "We try to get out, we'll both get caught." He shook his head emphatically. "I won't see you in that cell again. Couldn't take it."

Then Spike knew there was no way he was going to win this argument. He nodded. "Well. Thanks, Finn." The words caught in his throat. "For everythin'…"

Riley stepped up once more, turned Spike around gently and caressed his cheek with a thumb.

Knowing his face was wet – again – Spike wondered bitterly whether he'd ever be a man. This time he allowed himself to be kissed; parted his lips, letting Riley take whatall he wanted from him, perhaps for the last time. Finally, he pushed him gently away, bracing himself; setting his jaw.

"What's the drill then?"

For a while, they were both all business. As Riley went through his gear, stuffing things in his pockets he asked Spike, "How long can you last in daylight without dusting?"

Spike considered. "Cloudy day in Sunnydale, with the trusty coat over my head? Couple of minutes maybe? Never tested it to destruction you understand."

"Think you can get to cover from here in that time?" Riley asked him.

Spike squared his shoulders, trying to prepare himself for action. "Well, we're in the Van Outen crypt, so we're quite near the cemetery gates." He checked his mental cemetery-street-and-sewer map and nodded. "There's a manhole cover within easy smoking distance."

Riley thought for a moment. "They'll have called for back-up by now, but they won't have the sewers covered – not this quickly, and not with the men they have available. They'll be hoping to take us both above ground. I'll buy you as much time as I can, keep them off your tail for as long as possible, but eventually I'll have to turn myself in. Don't count on any more than a few minutes head start."

Spike heaved a deep sigh. "Meet me?" he said, his heart in his mouth.

"When?" Riley replied eagerly, straightening up.

"In three night's time?" Spike said. "Leave enough time for the dust to settle." Thinking he should put in a get-out clause – he owed Riley that at least – Spike added, "I know it's probably over." Saying it made him feel sick; made it real. He ground the remains of his cigarette out under his heel. "Just let me see you, so I know you're okay. We don't have to talk."

"Sure. Of course I'll meet you, if I'm not in detention." Riley patted him on the shoulder. "And you bet we'll talk. We'll do more than that."

Spike felt the leaden weight lift just a little from his heart. There was still some hope.

"But it has to be somewhere that's safe for you," Riley said. "Name the place."

"Well, don't laugh. There's a bar called Willy's Place. Demon bar in town, off -"

"I'll find it," Riley assured him. "And if I can't meet you, I'll get word to you there somehow."

"Okay then. Right."

Now it was Spike who went to Riley. Starving for a last embrace, he gripped Riley's face between his hands, not wanting to let this chance slip away; putting all the tenderness and passion he felt for him into the kiss, because they'd had so little time …

Then it was over.

Spike stared for a moment into Riley's anguished grey eyes, and said, "Three nights from now. Don't forget. Please."

"I won't," Riley promised him. He gave Spike's arm a reassuring squeeze. "Now let's move out."

Spike nodded in pained assent.

As Riley stealthed his way to the crypt entrance, Spike's eyes widened to see he had a knife drawn. With the taser he held in his other hand, Riley reached around and immobilised the man he must have known would be flattened against the outside wall. The man dropped, and Riley caught him, using him as a shield against any fire from the men outside, and holding the knife to his throat.

So: Riley was prepared to take a hostage after all – maybe even kill … for him.

Riley shouted out, "Drop your weapons. If anyone harms or threatens my friend – you know him as Hostile Seventeen – this man here dies."

Spike's un-beating heart felt a jolt. He closed his eyes for a second, swaying slightly.

Graham yelled out, "Lower your weapons."

"That's, 'Drop your weapons'," Riley countered. He roughly and conspicuously positioned his hostage so that if he took a hit, the hostage would be bound to be injured – or worse – by the knife in his hand. Then he threw down the taser and drew a machine pistol from his pocket. He trained it on the area in front of the crypt.

"I said drop them!" Riley bawled. "If I don't see those weapons hit the floor, I start taking pot-shots."

A reluctant order – "Okay, drop your weapons" – was followed by the rattle and thump of various lethal items hitting the ground.

~~

Riley looked at the overcast sky, then back into the crypt where his daylight vision just allowed him to make out the shining surfaces of Spike's eyes below the bleached crescent of his hair.

"It's overcast. I'll hold them. You've got your two minutes. Go!"

Not even bothering to cover his head, Spike took a deep breath, squirmed past Riley and the hostage in the doorway, and bolted for the street and the safety of the manhole cover.

Riley kept his weapon trained on his gawping comrades, as they watched Spike disappear into the sewers.

 

** _"'Computations have been made by experts. With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week.'" _ **

Graham had made a brave effort to persuade Riley to clean up or cover-up for his official de-briefing, but Riley had fended him off.

"I'm sorry if you don't get it, Graham – I truly am – but I'm not ashamed."

When he saw how serious Riley was, Graham had laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "Good luck, man. You'll need it."

So now, Riley stood before Maggie Walsh exactly as they had taken him: naked to the waist and making no effort to hide the bruises, scratches and bite marks from the night's activities. He wore his injuries and the blood and jism that marked him like badges of honour. Defiant, but composed, he stared straight ahead of him, refusing even to look at the Professor.

~~

Maggie felt herself flush. Agent Finn was a magnificent specimen.

She walked around her desk to where he stood. She took swabs with cotton wool from the bites, and used a spatula to take scrapings from a couple of places where other residues were most evident. She put them in small plastic bags or sample pots labelled with Riley's name, the date and time, and where each sample had been taken from.

Though it wasn't completely necessary, she took Polaroids of him from all sides.

He stood immobile and silent throughout these procedures, almost as though he'd been anaesthetised.

Then she began her questioning.

~~

Despite his outward calm, Riley wasn't sure how to handle this. He'd been trained to deal with interrogation in case of being captured by the enemy, but he'd been lucky; that had never happened to him. This scenario – a hostile de-briefing – was something he'd never even considered. He'd heard that people who didn't accept the authority of their interrogator sometimes refused to speak, or even lay face down on the floor. He dismissed these options; he could probably confuse the Professor more by answering at least some of her questions.

Lies or truth: which he told her hardly mattered. Truth was often as strange as fiction after all. Maybe he should just play the innocent.

He used to be good at that.

Maggie was now sitting behind her desk again, looking up expectantly, with her dicta-phone poised.

It began.

"How long have you been conspiring with Hostile Seventeen?"

"It wasn't a conspiracy," Riley said, putting on his most uncomplicated, farm-boy expression. "You know how it gets when people work with animals in a lab. Sometimes they get attached to one of the rats, give it a name. Want to take it home."

She looked at him suspiciously, but continued, "Who initiated the escape plan?"

"Well, I did, Professor," Riley said. He looked pityingly at her. "HSTs don't have the brains."

It was what she believed – what she had told them many times during briefings anyway – so he fed it back to her; it looked like it stuck in her craw. She made a few notes, while composing herself sufficiently to speak.

"The werewolf attacks were a masterstroke. Some of your fellow officers were injured." She referred to her notes. "Two of our men as well as several civilians. There were two fatalities." She regarded him sternly, as though he had savaged the victims himself. "How was that engineered?"

She was trying to soften him up with a guilt-trip, masquerading as flattery, but Riley remained expressionless. "It was pure coincidence. Full moon."

"You expect me to believe that all those werewolf attacks – without which Hostile Seventeen's escape attempt would probably have failed – were a lucky break?"

It struck Riley as ironic that the most truthful answer she was going to get from him was the one about which she appeared most sceptical. "I don't expect you to believe anything," he said. "Sir."

Her eyes narrowed. "Where is my Polgara demon now?" she demanded harshly.

Riley blinked. "What Polgara demon would that be, Professor?"

He secretly exulted to hear her hiss like an irritated cobra, ready to strike.

"How many times did you and the vampire copulate?"

She'd gone for the jugular, but he was ready for her. Cool and smooth as ice-cream, he said, "I don't believe it's possible for two males to copulate in the true scientific sense of the word."

"You know very well what I mean, Agent Finn. I want details."

He eyed her coldly. "I'm perfectly certain you do, Professor."

Thwarted, she tried another tack; she came round the desk again, and laid what she must have hoped was a maternal hand on his arm. But Riley already had a mother. He flinched Professor Walsh's hand away.

Then she started speaking to him in what she obviously thought was the voice of reason. "Riley, I know you've been under a lot of pressure lately …"

God! This woman loved the sound of her own voice.

Riley zoned out. Somewhere in the distance he could vaguely hear her droning on about 'actions and consequences', 'duty', 'being a team player', 'making her proud', and all that bullshit he'd so readily taken on board – once upon a time.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, he just wasn't listening.

She broke sharply into his reverie, "Agent Finn! Riley!"

He looked down at her with undisguised contempt. "Yes. Sir."

"I was saying that we are prepared … _I_ am prepared, to overlook this … temporary aberration which has caused an otherwise unpardonable lapse of discipline."

Lapse of discipline? That hardly covered it. Despite what Riley had told Spike, he fully expected to be court-martialled; almost wanted it. If he was going to be excused with a pat on the behind, there must be a good reason for it.

"Why?"

"Never mind why."

But he'd already worked out the answer. It was to save face: hers. If the ranking officer in a unit, a decorated officer like himself were court-martialled, the top brass would inevitably get to hear about it. They might start examining and questioning the value of the work here; might even close the project, which was her life's work.

Now was his chance – his way out. Looking straight ahead, not at her, he said simply, "I want to resign my commission."

** _"What?" _ **

She looked completely stunned.

"I want to leave the army, leave this project anyway. I don't think it's right, what we're doing to these Hostiles. If they're 'animals', they should fall under the jurisdiction of the Fish and Wildlife Department, not the military. If the threat they pose to the public is intentional, they should be covered by the Geneva Convention as enemy combatants, or they should have legal representation under the criminal justice system."

Maggie's mouth was open.

"In short, Professor, I no longer believe in what we're doing here." He looked her in the eye. "I've lost the Mission."

~~

Coldly, she assessed him, and saw that he was deadly serious. Her mouth twisted into a bitter line. "'Lost the Mission'?"

She stood looking up at Riley, who once again refused to acknowledge her with eye contact. She nodded slightly, and the man posted at the door – behind Riley – took a step forward.

"You don't have that luxury," she said. "And neither do I."

Tasered from behind, Riley dropped at her feet.

More to herself than anyone, she said, "You are the Mission."

She went briskly back round the desk to her intercom, flicked a switch, and spoke into the microphone. "Dr Angleman?"

"Yes Professor?"

"Time to wipe the slate clean."


	7. Waiting for Riley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley tries to hold on; Spike waits for him.

** _"One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed …"_ **

In the relative safety of the sewers, Spike made fast progress the hell away.

The Sunnydale Underground was a bit like the London Tubes; the smell of the air changed with depth and location, and he always knew where he was without even having to think about it. He felt safe down here. All he had to do was put as much distance as he could between himself and that manhole, before the Initiative could cut off his escape.

But as he barrelled through the tunnels, it occurred to him that the best place to hide out during the hours of daylight would be above ground. The Initiative blokes had seen him go down. With their limited knowledge of the habits and abilities of any but the most inexperienced fledges, they'd be expecting any vamp to do his utmost to stay down and dark until dusk.

With this in mind, Spike surfaced. Risking the occasional sunburst and sticking to the still-long shadows, he made his way to the mansion on Crawford Street. It wasn't nostalgia that led him back scene of so many humiliations; it was just that it was a good place to lie low. Riley didn't know about it, so he couldn't give away Spike's location, even if they resorted to torture.

** _Oh God, no. _ **

Spike leaned against a wall for support. He clamped one hand over his mouth; the other went to protect his genitals.

Torture one of their own men? No; they wouldn't do that. Would they?

After what Maggie Walsh had done to him, Spike knew that nothing was impossible.

He'd been trying not to think about all the things that might be happening to Riley right now. He needed his legs functioning to get out of this mess, not collapsing beneath him, so he tried to block it out. But now he'd let his defences down, his mind was a Magic Lantern show of pain.

First hand, he'd witnessed plenty of scenes of torture: mostly Angelus' doing, as he'd rarely had the patience for it himself. That's what he'd told the Big Brute anyway. Just a few weeks ago, he'd even been too lily-livered to stick around to watch Angel getting a dose of his own medicine at Marcus' hands.

Spike had only ever used torture as a means to an end, never for his own amusement, and now that it might be Riley tied to that chair; hung from that ceiling; strapped to that table, getting branded or beaten bloody, or electrocuted, it wasn't even remotely funny. And he was helpless to do anything about it. Couldn't fight; didn't even know where Riley would be taken.

Maybe they'd ship him off to Nevada, then Spike might never know …

He slammed a fist into the wall, then he just went limp and leaned there, sobbing around his damaged knuckles, wishing – as he sucked off the blood – that it was Riley's hand at his lips.

Overwrought as he was, Spike almost let an errant ray of sunshine that slid round the side of the building catch him in its lethal glare. He only just ducked out of the way in time.

_Come on Spike, pull yourself together. Riley shows up at Willy's after you've accidentally dusted yourself, what good will that do either of you?_

Just have to wait; play it cool. If Riley failed to make their rendezvous – well, that was another matter. There was always the Slayer. She might have something to say about the Soldier Boys playing in her sandpit. Have to tread carefully, but he might just be able to get away with approaching her, if he could convince her that an innocent human was in danger.

Of course, he'd be the laughing stock of the Scooby Gang if he told them even half his reasons for going cap-in-hand for their help. Didn't matter; Riley Finn was what mattered, not the tattered remains of his pride.

Spike didn't know how he got to the mansion, but he got there: slightly singed, but that wasn't a big deal compared to the general state of him. There were times when it was a good thing not to have a reflection, and he was almost sure that now was one of those occasions. He got to the bathroom in time to puke in the sink, only to find that the services weren't functioning: no water.

Fuck.

He _really_ needed a clean-up. But he was just too exhausted to make any further effort, so he went to find somewhere to lie down.

The bedroom – Angel's bedroom – was still full of Chinese junk, like it had been subjected to an oriental makeover for daytime TV. What a pretentious git. At least it was dim – like its owner; the thick curtains were dusty but did the job.

The place still stank of Angel of course, and also of Buffy. Even after all this time, their spoor was still strong. But behind Buffy's light perfume was an older scent that made his heart ache to find it here: old roses, blood and jasmine.

Drusilla had slept in this bed.

Spike felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He doubled over and sank to his knees with a whine.

He'd known: of course he'd known that she'd betrayed him with Angelus. How could she have done anything else?

And why did he even care? He wanted Riley now; loved him, he truly did – more than he could have thought possible, even a couple of days ago. But how could he believe in a love so young – so new and fragile – when a tryst lasting a hundred years could be broken as easily as his spine?

The absolute proof of Drusilla's faithlessness was like a rasp scraped across an open wound. It was too much. Harsh desperate whimpers escaped him as he ripped off his clothes and threw himself into Angel's bed, rubbing himself on the sheets like a dog, leaving his scent there, and the scent of that other man: the one who cared for him, enough to kill, maybe even enough to die for him.

Angel – if he ever returned – would know. He would pretend it didn't bother him, but deep in his primitive, possessive heart, a beast would howl in anger that one of his own had been taken from him.

For the sheer hell of it – revenge, spite, pride, whatever – Spike hoped Angel _would_ come back.

Just: not this week.

He lay in a half-sleep, imagining Riley Finn there with him; imagining Angel coming in and finding them there, coupling in his bed; imagining Riley smashing the Poof's fangs down his throat.

He jerked off viciously on Angel's sheets.

He rolled over.

Then he slept very deeply. His dreams were all of cages and white hells, where all the sounds were screams and the clash of metal on metal; where all the words were butchery dressed up as science, and where all the prison guards had knives or electric goads attached to the ends of their arms.

When he awoke, one of his hands was crushed against the bed by his own weight. He wondered how it was possible for a vampire to get pins-and-needles. He lay there, rubbing his forearm.

Even if Riley showed up when he'd said he would, most likely things wouldn't be the same. How could they be? A vampire lover would be a liability in Riley's line of work: understatement of the century. Riley's declarations of love could have been some kind of post-purchase reinforcement – his emotions heightened by the escape, the chase, or even by withdrawal from the Professor's drugs. Maybe when he saw the battered vampire – two previous and careless owners – in the harsh light of day, he'd wonder why he wasted his time and money on it.

Spike thumped his fist against the mattress.

His head hurt.

He wished – oh, how he wished – he could stop thinking. But there was no TV in the mansion and he didn't have a stamp collection to organise, so Spike spent the next couple of hours painstakingly picking over every exchange he and Riley had ever had.

Over a hundred years' worth of vitriol he'd had saved up; he hadn't dared vent in front of Angel, and Drusilla could never have understood; but he'd thrown it all at Riley Finn, and Riley Finn had taken it and come back for more. The man had hardly said a harsh word to him in all their short time; he'd forgiven and more than forgiven Spike; he'd betrayed, threatened and attacked his own friends.

He'd risked everything.

The conclusion was inescapable.

Riley Finn loved him.

Angel's bed might be cold and dark – not to mention sticky – but Spike felt like he was floating on a bed of warm marshmallows.

Riley would meet him.

If it were humanly possible, Riley would be there.

Maybe Riley wouldn't be able to wait; maybe he'd go to Willy's the first chance he got: tonight, even. That's what Spike would do in his place.

It's what Spike would do anyway.

Decision made, his fears lifted a little. Like Riley said, if the Initiative had been about to hurt him, they'd have killed him already: shot him in the head when he had that goon by the throat, rather than let Spike escape with an expensive prototype in his cranium.

He couldn't help wondering what that chip thing was doing in there. Was it was just sitting there quietly, waiting – even hoping – for him to put a foot wrong? Or was it interfering with his thoughts in some way? If it _was_ changing his thoughts, he wouldn't know about it anyway, would he?

He scratched at the back of his head.

Buggering chip.

He had to get the damn thing out.

Had to.

 

**Night 10**

Spike rose at dusk, and got dressed in his stiff and somewhat disgusting clothes. He knew there would be clean designer gear in the wardrobe, but he refused to even look at it; there was no way he was wearing Angel's cast-offs.

Had to get cleaned up though.

The college campus was near enough and student hang-outs had always been good places to pick up free gear and get – among other things – a wash and brush up, so that was going to be his first port-of-call.

Riley'd warned him that Lowell House provided the Initiative with access to the world above, so Spike was careful to steer well clear of that part of the campus. He also remembered to keep an eye open for the Slayer around Stephenson Hall. Cresky seemed like a safe bet, but he needed to look like he belonged there, so he took his coat off and slung it over his shoulder, then whisked up a pile of books someone had left on a coffee table in the student lounge. All poetry – bloody typical! Never mind. He had some books, and that made him a student.

Now all he needed was some bubble bath.

Spike went down one of the residential corridors, listening at each of the doors. If he couldn't hear any activity in the room, he knocked. On the first two tries, someone answered the door, and he had to say, "Sorry, wrong room."

On the third attempt he hit pay-dirt – no answer – and forced an entry. He didn't think an invite was technically needed for student lodgings, but the sign on the door said, 'Come in if you're pretty'. Even in his current state that clearly would have constituted an invitation.

He glanced around the room, and found that it was, as he'd hoped, unoccupied.

Okay then.

Kid who lived here had decent stuff.

First of all, Spike picked up a backpack he found on the floor, but it was too distinctive – designer label and a patch from a tourist spot – so he settled for a plastic bag instead. He took some of the guy's toiletries – bath gel, shampoo, soap – and a comb. He looked in a drawer and swiped a black tee-shirt that looked about the right size. There was a nice wad of cash on the desk; he took that too.

Then the phone rang.

The answering machine clicked in. "Parker Abrams, leave a message."

That name was familiar. Huh! Buffy's old squeeze. What were the chances? A girl's tentative voice said, "Parker? Could we meet up? I haven't seen you since that night. I need to talk to you. Are you upset with me? Sorry, that sounds –" Then the machine mercifully cut the poor girl off.

Never one to ignore fodder for gossip, Spike went to the machine and played back all the stored messages. Apart from minor differences in the girls' voices, the messages were almost identical: all fifteen of them. But there was one voice he recognised: Buffy's.

Despite himself, Spike found that he was both squirming with sympathetic embarrassment, and boiling with righteous indignation. This Parker-fellow must be keeping the messages – one from each of his conquests – to play back later; massage his ego. Probably played them to his friends as well: if he had any.

Bloke was a cad.

Spike snorted and shook his head at himself.

Looking through a few more drawers, Spike discovered that Parker was also a collector. The bottom drawer of the dressing table was full of girls' stuff – lacy knickers, a scarf, a lipstick, a love note, a piece of jewellery – each item in a plastic bag, neatly labelled with the girl's name.

Well now: how very 'Angelus' of young Master Abrams.

It had been one of the Ponce's hobbies, during the 1890s, to keep some memento of each of his victims: a blood-stained lock of hair; an earring, sometimes with the ear still attached and suchlike. Like he wanted to be given a bloody medal for every kill, however easily he'd offed the prey.

Never met anyone wanted so much applause just for eating dinner.

That hobby had lasted until the collection got too large and too foul to cart around, and Darla made him ditch it. She was a capricious bitch, but she had her moments.

Hardly knowing why he was doing it – except that he could, and Parker Abrams deserved it – Spike smashed the answering machine with his fist. Then he emptied the girls' stuff into another bag, found a pair of jeans that fit, and – quietly – trashed the room. He grabbed a marker pen from among the items he'd tipped onto the floor, then he went out, closing the door behind him.

Suppressing a grin, Spike jinked down the stairs to the lobby, where he made a display of Parker's collection on the college notice board, scribbling 'Abrams' Angels' beneath it. Then he went upstairs, still chuckling.

He found a bathroom, and set the taps running. Watching the water gushing and foaming as he stripped off, Spike was sure he'd never needed a hot bath more in his life, or seen one that looked so inviting. Even so, he paused before he got in. The smell of Riley's sweat and Riley's seed upon him was … comforting; he regretted washing it away.

Who knew how long it would be before …

But he didn't need to look this conspicuous; had to wash, or charity workers would be offering him soup and stray dogs would start following him around, hailing him as leader of the pack. Riley probably wasn't too big on the whole 'marking someone as your property' thing anyway.

So he sank himself beneath the bubbles, and tried to wash away his fears.

~~

Coming downstairs, feeling cleaner than he'd ever felt before, Spike smirked to see a crowd of females surrounding the notice board, all gesticulating wildly. As he went out the door he heard one of them say, "You know what I wish? I just wish Parker Abrams …"

Ha!

It might be fun to watch some passing vengeance demon turn Parker into a frog. But he had more important things to do. Well, so he hoped.

Spike tried to calm his nerves as he headed for Willy's Place; told himself not to expect anything. He was only going for a quiet drink.

No, really.

Actually, Parker's donation should be enough to keep him in blood and smokes for a couple of days, so he might as well treat himself.

As Spike pushed open the door to Willy's, he vamped out, and swept the room with his gaze. Not looking for trouble – not with this damn chip to stop him defending himself – but it made sense to act like he was still the same Big Bad as ever. Most of what made you a rep was bluff anyway; you just had to do enough to deter anyone from kicking off.

When Willy had served him, he relaxed a bit, propping up the bar and letting the demon fade from his features. The O-Pos went down smoothly, and he wasn't waiting for Riley.

No siree.

But still, he caught himself door-watching. Not expecting; not hoping, even; after all, it was only the first night. He was just checking; making sure that if Riley did come in, he didn't get jumped by any of the demonic clientele.

Later on he played some pool, and topped up his funds by taking a couple of the less aggressive demons to the cleaners. Well, it helped to pass the time. It was nearly dawn when he headed back to the mansion.

He looked regretfully at the bed.

Maybe messing up the sheets hadn't been such a brilliant move after all.

 

**Day 11**

_"'I am responsible for my rose,' the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember." _

Riley was fighting his way back to consciousness. It wasn't easy. He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids were being held shut by an impossibly heavy weight, or else they'd been glued together.

The first time he tried – and failed – to open them, he fell instantly back into a deep sleep. But even in his dreams he was still trying desperately to open his eyes; to see who was there, what was happening, because he was awake, he was sure of it; and yet …

Was he blind?

Now, Riley was starting to get scared, and maybe that helped, because – finally – he managed to wake up for real. The weight slowly lifted from his eyelids.

His relief was short-lived; he couldn't move, he was strapped to a medical table.

Shit!

Were they going to operate on him too? Use him in an experiment?

He struggled feebly against his bonds, but they were too tight, or he was too weak; still under the influence of whatever drugs they'd pumped into him. But he realised – with some relief – that he was fully clothed, so he was probably going to keep his internal organs.

He couldn't see anyone else in the room.

As though the thing had been partly shielded from his conscious mind, it was only then that he noticed a light directly above him. It was circular and about 18 inches in diameter, and it was pulsing gently, the colours changing, running through the spectrum. As he lay there, unable to move, he noticed that the pulses matched the rhythm of his heart. If he slowed his heart down, the pulses became a slow throb. If he worked himself up – which wasn't hard in the circumstances – the mechanical heartbeat sped up as well.

So now he knew what was going to happen to him. He'd seen it done to Captain Kirk. He'd already been drugged. Now he was going to be brainwashed.

He'd only just woken up but already he felt tired … So tired. The lights were soothing – beckoning, drawing him in. It would be easy … To give in … To let the light take him somewhere bluebirds fly. Where there were never any dilemmas or doubts.

And there was a voice, talking softly to him; so quiet he almost couldn't hear it; telling him to take his orders like a good soldier, and let other people wrestle with the ethics. Telling him 'there's no 'I' in 'team'.

He didn't like that voice; didn't want to take orders any more – not from them.

From **_her _**.

Now he was angry.

She wasn't going to win.

He wasn't going to let her win.

He clenched his fist and his fingernails dug into the gash in the palm of his left hand. Blood trickled down his wrist onto the table as the wound opened up. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. It made him glad. He thought about Spike feeding from this wound; about the powerful feeling of being needed – of being essential.

He dug deeper, concentrating on how much he hated Maggie Walsh: his hatred now much stronger than his loyalty had ever been.

He dug deeper still, thinking of Spike's other face, and the taste of his tears.

Then he heard a door open. He unclenched his hand; let his eyes fall half-open; tried to relax his body and pretend to be fully sedated. Professor Walsh and Dr Angleman came into view.

"I thought I saw an eye movement just then," Angleman said. "The drugs may be wearing off."

"You'll have to give him another shot before we get started properly."

That was Maggie.

"We don't want him excited in any way. His mind won't take the re-conditioning so well if he's in a state of agitation."

Thanks for the information, Professor.

Riley wasn't sure that he could make himself any more agitated than he was already, but he was prepared to try, if it would help him to resist being 're-conditioned'.

That helped.

He didn't much like being spoken of as though he were a used item of electrical equipment.

"Do you really think we can salvage anything from this Professor?" Angleman said. "He went quite far off into leftfield. It won't be easy."

"It may not be easy, but I _am_rofessor of Psychology, if you remember. An expert on human behaviour."

Through his half-closed eyes Riley saw the Professor eye-balling Dr Angleman, who looked appropriately cowed for having doubted her.

"Erasing his memory of the last few days should be no problem," Professor Walsh went on. "Dealing with his attachment to the Hostile may be a little more complicated. Simply erasing the details may leave him emotionally de-stabilised. We'll need to substitute someone else as the object of his … appetites."

Riley flinched inwardly. This was the woman he had thought of as his mentor. She was an abomination. He tried to keep his features expressionless and slack, but he didn't know how good a job he was doing.

Angleman was speaking now. "Whom did you have in mind Professor?"

"Someone a bit more mainstream and innocuous. I already have a specific person in mind – a young woman in one of my classes. Not too bright, but quite attractive in a generic way. She should prove sufficient to distract him."

Angleman again looked doubtful. "Will that work? Just swapping a human female for a male vampire?"

"Riley's a man isn't he? Take it from me, Doctor. As long as he has a hope of copulating with the person we substitute, the difference won't matter one iota."

So this was what she really thought of him – and presumably of men in general: they were meat puppets, whose strings she could pull; whose desires were so shallow that she could manipulate them just by swapping one 'object' for another. Riley felt sick.

"Well, what about the other soldiers?" Angleman said, still gamely voicing his objections. "Will they ever trust him enough to work with him again? He did attack some of them after all. They'll be bound to talk about what happened the last few days. Won't that trigger his real memories?"

"That's a valid point." Professor Walsh pondered for a moment. "We'll do a little historical re-construction with them, too, using the drugs, this device –" She indicated the pulsating eye in the ceiling: "– and a little positive reinforcement with regard to Riley. It shouldn't be too hard. By the time I've finished with them, they'll remember it as a training exercise that got a little too realistic – nothing more. Riley will be back in charge of his team in no time."

Then Professor Walsh was stroking Riley's hair; his jaw. He felt a chill pass through him.

"He's still my boy," she said. "He's mine, and he's going to make me very proud."

It was all Riley could do not to spit in her face.

~~

It was the second night, and Spike was starting to feel nervous. He'd spent the day alternately sleeping and pacing. Though he wasn't going to admit to himself, he'd half-expected to see Riley that first night. Getting his hopes up had been foolish.

But hope is a powerful and a painful thing.

Needing to kill that pain, he'd arrived at Willy's before the sun had even sunk below the horizon. Now he was getting drunk on AB negative with JD chasers, while muttering unreasonably, "Come on Finn, what's keepin' you?" and never taking his eye off the door. Every time it swung inwards, he cursed whatever demon walked in.

He knew he shouldn't feel this way. Riley's absence might just mean that he was sticking to the plan. If he'd showed up early and Spike hadn't been there … well, Spike might have heard about it and been thrown by it – thought something was wrong. So he should be reassured. Everything was as it should be. Riley'd be here tomorrow, or at the very least get word to him, that was for sure.

He'd said so, hadn't he?

When Willy started working his rag over the bar top in ever approaching circles, and giving Spike the sympathetic barman's eye – inviting confidences – Spike realised he must look as jumpy as he felt.

"Waitin' for some broad Spike?" Willy said.

"Sod off."

"Because I know some lovely girls. I got pictures …"

Without a second thought, Spike reached over the counter, grabbed the over-helpful little barman by the shirt, and hauled him partway across the bar.

Then the chip hit him.

He grasped his forehead, smacked the counter with his other hand, trying to transfer the pain somewhere else, and knocked over his half-full shot glass. The part of his brain that wasn't on fire found time to wonder whether you were an optimist or a pessimist if you thought the glass you'd knocked over was half-full rather than half-empty.

He banged his head on the bar.

When Willy had regained his footing, he blessed his attacker with a look of genuine concern. "You okay, Spike?"

"Just a migraine," Spike said through his teeth. Have to work on those people skills if he was going to make it through the next few days with his head intact. "Set 'em up again."

"Vampires get migraines?" Willy said. "Who knew?" He looked like he had something more to say about it, but he just filled another glass and pushed it towards Spike, saying, "On the house."

The recipient of this charity looked at him sideways. "Are you patronisin' me?"

"No way, Spike." Willy gave him a confiding eyebrow twitch. "Taking care of my regulars, that's all."

With a muttered – "Thanks" – Spike knocked that one back. Then he sent a few friends along to keep it company. The next time he looked at the clock above the bar it was two in the morning. Fuck! Riley wasn't going to show up this late. Spike slammed out of the bar.

It wasn't far to the mansion, and The Initiative lot didn't come into populated areas much, so he didn't bother taking the sewers. The underground would probably be more dangerous anyway – full of demons who like himself had been on the piss, and unlike himself, could put up a fight.

He was about halfway 'home', and trying to think up some way of getting through the rest of the night without going barmy, when Spike heard heavy footsteps behind him. He was being followed. Two people: both male; both quite drunk, and on cheap whiskey, judging by the sound and the odour. They were wearing … cowboy boots; one of them had those ornamental spurs on them, if the occasional rasp of metal on the sidewalk was anything to go by.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they just happened to be going the same way as him. He turned a corner, but they turned too, still keeping the same distance behind him. One of them started sniggering, and quickly suppressed it.

What was so bloody funny, why were they laughing at him?

Spike wanted to look over his shoulder, but he knew – from the predator's side of the tracks – that letting them know he felt threatened was exactly the wrong thing to do.

Bloody hell.

Feeling so totally vulnerable while walking the streets at night? It wasn't natural, and it sure as hell wasn't pleasant.

Was this how his prey felt – used to feel – when they'd sensed him tailing them? Was this how women felt all the time? It was like being naked. He walked a bit faster, and the footsteps behind him sped up as well.

One of the owners of the footsteps gave a raucous laugh, and the other called out, "Hey! Pretty boy! Looking for a good time?"

Jesus fuck!

Spike thought about legging it at the next intersection. He was bound to be faster on his feet than a couple of drunken rednecks. He wanted to run for it now, truth be told, but stubbornly refused to give them the satisfaction. Instead, he picked up the pace again.

His stalkers must have taken note. They started giggling maniacally, and took a few heavy running steps towards him.

Spike nearly bolted, but somehow held his nerve, just kept walking, fast, and when he reached the crossroads, obstinacy narrowly beat out fear. Still accelerating, he kept going straight ahead; the cowboys, hooting with derision, turned off to the right.

They left Spike both awash with relief, and wanting so badly to rip their throats out that it brought the demon screaming to the surface. He nearly let loose a roar into the night, but he remembered just in time that empty threats were liable to get you killed, so he quickly shook it off.

He took a deep breath.

And another.

It was definitely time to get to cover. He'd been worried he'd get picked on by demons – especially other vamps – when they found out about the chip; hadn't figured on adding the more sinister threat from normal, everyday human beings to his burgeoning list of problems.

He was nearly at Crawford Street, and starting to relax again, when someone stepped out of an alley into his space. The pierced, tattooed and cinched face of a Road Pirate was inches from his own. Worse still: he recognised the individual the face belonged to; his name was Roadkill. The ugly git had tried it on with Drusilla one night in a bar in New Orleans, and Spike was responsible for the scar that ran across Roadkill's throat. He'd thought the bugger was dead when he'd thrown him in the river.

Careless, Spike: very sloppy.

Spike took a step back, preparing to make a diving run past Roadkill, but then two more Hellions grabbed his arms. He cast a wary glance at each of them in turn.

One was a runty male, even uglier and more scarred than his leader; lucky to have lived this long, by the look of him. The other was what passed for female in Hellion circles; looked like Suzi Quatro on a good day, if she had the contents of the average tool shed piercing every available part of her body.

On a normal night, these guys wouldn't have posed much of a problem, singly or in combination. Unfortunately, this wasn't a normal night. The chip would stop him harming them, and they were holding him so tight he didn't even have enough leverage to try to struggle free.

"Well, if it ain't our old friend Spike," Roadkill said conversationally. "King Blood Rat. I heard you had a little disability, so I thought we'd come along and offer our assistance." He looked at his sidekicks for a reaction; they sniggered obligingly.

This was bad. How the buggering hell had news about the chip got out so fast? Not like he'd taken out an advert in the Sunnydale Herald.

Then Spike remembered: there had been a F'kuth demon in a cell diagonally opposite his own when he'd come round after the implant operation. F'kuth were telepaths. Shit! The F'kuth had read him, and then the loose-brained bastard must have put the word out that William the Bloody was neutered.

"Yeah, we thought you might need a helping hand," the female said. "Now you can't defend yourself."

There was no point in denying it, so Spike just kept quiet. He was getting pretty good at that. Anything he said now was only going to get him into more trouble – if that were even possible.

"After all, us demons have to stick together don't we?" Roadkill said, tapping Spike lightly on the cheek.

Spike breathed in through his nose and pursed his lips.

"Oh, except I forgot. Spike don't play by the rules. Tried to cut my head off last time we met." He shook his head. "And now, you're playing lap dog to a human. Ain't that sad? Makes me ashamed to think that demon-kind's got its very own Uncle Tom."

Well, wasn't _that_ ironic? Spike tried to keep his face expressionless. He knew what was coming: revenge. It's what he'd have been thinking about in this Road Pirate's place. Things could _not_ get any worse.

"Maybe we should get him to come back to the Dark Side?" the female said. "Show him a good time?"

Oh, superb. Everyone wanted to show Spike a good time all of a sudden. Laboratory Chic must be 'in' this season.

"You know what, Jet baby?" Roadkill said. "You could have a point there."

So he'd been wrong before. Things had now, officially, got much worse.

"Yeah … I think I'm up for some of that action," Roadkill said. "Normally I'd save myself for the ladies, but hey, I think Spike's pretty enough." A warty tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips, as though he was considering whether or not to have the starter. "Let's all bang him. Me first."

"Well, don't I seem to be flavour of the month?" Spike said acidly.

His mouth still worked but his brain was frozen with terror. These Road Pirates were hung like the reptiles from Hell. Their sexual organs retracted into their bodies, but they were so huge and wickedly barbed it was hard to believe such a feat was physically possible. Some of the pirates – including the females – had more than one of these stingers, and none of them were too particular where they stuck them.

"Might even consider letting him live if he makes nice for us," Roadkill said, slyly dangling the bait – continued existence – before Spike's mind's eye. Then he addressed his other lackey. "What's your take on it, Hogwart?"

It soon became clear why Hogwart had been silent up to now. A procession of lewd grunts and gurgles was what passed for an answer: completely incoherent, but the sense of it didn't require translation.

The survivor in Spike's head ran through his limited range of options. He could fight, get a migraine the size of the Tunguska Event, and then be painfully raped and killed; he could submit to their attentions, try and make it good, and trust that Roadkill would keep his word and let him live: not very likely given their history; or he could pretend to go along with them, and hope they'd accidentally let him escape before too much damage was done.

Logic told him that the last option was the most expedient. But even if they were sufficiently sloppy or sufficiently satisfied with his services to let him live; what then?

As if she'd read Spike's mind, Jet said, "Of course, his human Master won't be too interested in poor little Spikey afterwards. When he sees what a mess we've made of him."

This was precisely the worst thing she could have said. Spike couldn't help remembering Riley's desperate interrogation of his fidelity when he'd been cuffed to the ironwork in the mausoleum, and his response: "You, Finn. Only you."

 

"He's never gonna be able to feel that human prick inside of him again, that's for sure," Roadkill added helpfully.

With vampire healing powers, that wasn't actually true, but it wasn't the point either. How could he face Riley again? There was no way he'd be able to hide the injuries and pretend nothing had happened. It would look like he'd struggled alright, whether he did or no, but he wouldn't be able to lie: not to Riley. He'd have to confess he'd gone down without a fight.

The Hellions were still elaborating on their plans for his future, but Spike was hardly listening. He was too busy imagining the look of betrayal – of disgust – that he knew Riley wouldn't be able to suppress. He tried to tell himself that Riley would understand; would say, and know, that he'd done all he could. But what if the man from whom he'd felt so much love – the man he loved so desperately in return – couldn't bring himself to trust him; to touch him again?

The thought was more than he could bear.

He wouldn't even be able to ask it of the kid; Riley shouldn't have to cope with that.

Fuck them. Fuck them and fuck the chip too. He wasn't submitting to anyone any more.

No one except Riley.

Maybe if he fought hard enough, they'd stake him, or maybe the pain from the chip would somehow kill him before any further violations could take place. Either way it would be better than just giving it up.

Spike tuned back in, to hear Jet and Roadkill discussing an appropriate venue for the romantic evening they had planned for him. The junkyard on the city limits seemed to be a favoured spot, and they were ready to move out, so now was as good a time as any to make his move.

He was still tense in the grip of the two demons, so he deliberately relaxed his shoulders, letting his muscles go slack. It had the desired effect; his captors loosened their hold on him. Spike elbowed Hogwart in the stomach, and as the Hellion doubled over with a grunt, Spike whipped his other arm free and back-fisted Jet's nose, smashing it to a gristly pulp. Jet lost her grip on him, and Spike turned to knee Hogwart in the face as he went down.

Taken off guard, Roadkill backed away, aiming a hay-maker at Spike's head. Spike dodged out of Roadkill's reach, but Jet kicked him behind the knee, and as his leg gave way, Spike realised that it was the first pain he'd felt since the start of the fight. There wasn't time to wonder why. He braced himself on his hands and kicked Jet's legs out from under her.

Roadkill was coming for him again, and Spike let his demon out. He brought his head up hard, catching the big idiot under the chin with a satisfying crunch. Roadkill went staggering backwards, and Spike was on his feet in time to see Hogwart sidling towards him, fists half-raised in self-defence. Spike lashed a kick into his stomach, sending him to the floor, winded once again.

This was the fucking business!

Roadkill was up, and coming on again, evidently determined that revenge wasn't a dish to be easily snatched from under his nose. But it seemed to be dawning on him that his Spike wasn't crippled after all; what's more, Spike had beaten him once before. Roadkill's bellow was loud enough but his eyes were full of self-doubt.

Grinning like a lunatic, Spike ruthlessly blocked and batted away Roadkill's telegraphed punches as if they'd been thrown by a fruit fly, and now it was Spike who was on the attack, backing the Hellion up against a wall. Roadkill hadn't caused all the suffering and humiliation of the last few days, but he was sure as hell going to pay for it.

A flicker in the Hellion's bloodshot eyes, and a movement reflected in the metal plates embedded in the bloke's face, and Spike whipped an elbow strike over his shoulder, smashing into Jet's nose for a second time as she came up behind him. Then he rammed two fingers up Roadkill's capacious nostrils. With the other hand he got a good grip on some of Roadkill's earrings; that stopped him struggling too much.

Jet was yelling blue murder, definitely out of contention for the moment.

Plenty of time, Spike.

He kicked the Hellion in the shins for good measure, savouring the muffled grunts and whimpers. Then he used the nose-hold, together with his grip on Roadkill's metal-filled right ear, to force him around until he was kneeling on the ground with his back to Spike, whining and scrabbling uselessly at Spike's hands. With a quick movement, Spike slid his fingers out of their disgusting hold and down to grip Roadkill's chin, wrapping his right hand tightly over the top of the demon's head.

"Now, I'll do us both a kindness," Spike said, in his best 'I'm a reasonable psychopath' voice, while giving a slight twist to Roadkill's neck. "I won't even demand any sexual favours. All you have to do is say, 'Sorry Spike' and I might even consider letting you live."

Roadkill croaked out, "Sorry, Spike."

Spike waited a second or two, smelling the Hellion's fear. "What a shame," he said, giving the final twist that snapped Roadkill's neck. "Not loud enough."

He let the body fall to the ground with a thud, and leaned over to wipe his fingers on his dead opponent's shirt.

Jet was still staggering, cursing and spitting out blood and shards of bone; Spike picked up half a brick from the side of the road, and despatched her with a killing blow to the back of the head.

As for Hogwart, he was up at last and in full retreat, but it wasn't his day. He ran straight onto the stake held ready by a small blonde girl as she strolled towards the field of combat. He grunted, falling in a heap with the stake embedded in his chest.

"Spike," Buffy said, clearly less than delighted to see him. "What are you doing in my town? Again!"

Frowning slightly, as though disappointed in her performance, he said, "Your job apparently, Slayer."

Now was a good time to run, and so he ran, while Buffy shouted after him, "And that would be because …?"

Huh! Valley Girls!

~~

Puzzled, Buffy watched him go.

Gave him a free pass.

He'd been right about Parker.

Who'd been mysteriously absent from his classes today, though he did seem to have a twin sister on campus …

She kicked the dead Hellions disconsolately.

Killing demons seemed to be the new craze around here.

For all the action _she_ was getting lately, she might as well hang up her stake.

~~

But Spike was on a high, laughing with relief and the adrenaline rush as he ran. When he realised the Slayer wasn't on his case, he slowed to a swaggering walk, considering this new state of affairs.

He could kill demons!

Added to that, none of the Hellions had escaped to put the word out – counteract the F'kuth's erroneous information. He'd have to speak to Willy about this. There could be fun to be had, and quick, easy money to be made. A suspicion crossed his mind. Had Willy known about the chip? Willy heard all the rumours. Maybe Willy had even spread them, though Spike didn't think so.

Didn't matter now, anyway.

He could kill demons!

This was fucking great!

He felt like staying out all night, looking for more action. But that would probably draw the wrong sort of attention, so he made his way home, still buzzing – re-playing the fight over and over in his head. He really wanted to brag to someone about it, but that would blow the gaffe too soon.

The important thing was that a bit of his spine had been reclaimed from the Lost and Found. He'd been broken; cut adrift; but now he was at least partly his old self again, and tomorrow, Riley would meet him, and they'd work it out.

Choose curtains.

Thelma-and-Louise-it if they had to.

Whatever Riley wanted was all right with him.

This time, when he lay down in Angel's bed, he fell straight into an untroubled sleep.

**Day 12**

_"'Then you don't remember. This is not the exact spot.'" _

The whump-whump of the chopper blades sliced through the fog, bringing him to a higher level of wakefulness. He could see the pulse of the searchlights sweeping the area. They'd come for him: come to carry him from the battlefield. He'd been wounded. He'd made a mistake that had almost compromised the operation, but his commanding officer had said it wasn't his fault.

Now, he was being taken home.

Home: for some R and R.

He might even get a medal.

His mother was proud of him.

But here was the problem.

None of that was true.

Above him – those weren't searchlights.

And those weren't chopper blades he could hear, and this wasn't a medical stretcher he was strapped to, and no one was coming to his rescue.

Once, there had been a rainbow over his head. That was long gone. He missed the peace of its spectral daze, but now all the colours had faded, and there was just this blinking eye, pulsing brighter-fainter-brighter; sucking him in; absorbing every bit of will that he could muster.

The sound resolved itself – became what it was: the insidious voice of the Professor, burrowing and boring and eating inexorably into his memories like some hideous parasite; dripping its acid on the rock of his resistance; wearing away the truth.

Trying to make him forget.

The most important thing, the thing he wanted to remember most of all; she was trying to make him forget.

He had tried to block her voice out.

He had tried so hard, but now he was tired; so very tired.

There was one thing – just one; something he wanted more than anything to keep hold of, to grasp and hold in his mind, in his arms and in his heart and never let it go. But like sand running through his fingers, the harder he tried, the quicker it seemed to be taken from him.

Spike …

The shapes were dissolving.

Even the memory of Spike's face was breaking up.

Blue eyes, that were sometimes golden.

Pale skin – pale as milk – but marked with red.

Black fingernails.

Black coat.

Even the names of the colours, even those were flowing away like so much coloured water.

And now there was just a painful flickering brightness he couldn't block out, even when he closed his eyes tight shut.

A girl's face floated before him, obscuring what he knew he wanted to see. He tried to dig his fingernails into his palm again, but his muscles were slack – out of his control.

Just a few words were left to him now.

Meet Spike.

In three nights.

He had to remember.

But he didn't even know how much time had passed – a day, a week, a month. It seemed like he'd been lying here, half-waking, half-dreaming, for so long … so very long.

He might already be too late.

The thought nearly made him cry, and then he almost forgot why he was upset.

Spike.

Spike was fading from him.

The fabulous thing that he had found was going to be lost to him forever.

…

What was that thing?

The thing that had given him such meaning?

Something rich and strange.

He wanted …

… he couldn't remember what it was that he wanted.

Tears rolled down the sides of his face.

Bereft; exhausted; alone; he lay quietly weeping, while Professor Walsh filled his mind with popcorn.

**Night 12**

_"'You have nothing to do but wait for me there. I shall be there tonight.'" _

Spike spent the afternoon at the mall, practising sleight of hand; picking up a few essentials from the jewellery and make-up counters. He figured he ought to brush up all the skills he had; he was probably going to need them in his new life, at least until he got the chip out.

As dusk fell, he made his way back to Cresky for another free soak in the tub. One or two of the students nodded briefly to him, like he was a regular already. In the lobby was a girl he thought he recognised: dark hair, dark eyes, slim build, vulnerable-looking. She was frantically punching in numbers on the public phone. As he walked past, he heard her say, "It's Abigail Parker. If you're there, please pick up. I don't mean to go all 'stalker' on you, but we need to talk …"

Wait a minute. Was that …?

Spike smirked.

Go Team Vengeance!

~~

He'd been okay all day: feeling pretty good; confident about tonight; relaxed, even. But by seven o'clock, Spike was already slamming into Willy's and thumping the flat of his hand on the bar, demanding, **_"Messages!?" _**

Willy barely flinched. "What's that Spike? What can I do for you?"

"Messages, got any messages, anyone been asking for me, big guy, good-lookin', anyone –"

"Sorry Spike, I got nothin'."

"Fine." Spike bit his lip and sighed heavily. "Just gimme a beer."

Though he was trying not to let his face betray him, it had clearly given him away – well, that, and the histrionics – because Willy patted him reassuringly on the arm, and before he could stop himself, Spike had given him a nod of thanks.

God! How are the mighty fallen; reduced to accepting sympathy from Willy the Snitch. He turned away, pretending it hadn't happened.

After the beer, he downed a pint of house red to take the edge off. Mustn't come over all hungry and needy if – **_when_** – Finn showed up. It wouldn't do to bite the bloke's hand off if he should offer ...

Not that Spike was expecting anything.

He picked at the nail polish he'd re-applied today, wondering whether he should ditch that look; whether it was a bit too '80s. It hadn't seemed to put Riley off, so it was probably okay.

The door swung open and there was a flash of blond hair.

Spike almost got up, but stopped himself in time. It wasn't Riley. It wasn't Buffy either, so there was one bit of good news. Couldn't have dealt with the Slayer at the moment: not in any sense of the word.

Spike was getting the shakes.

If he got any more tense, he thought he might snap in two.

** _Where was Riley? _ **

It was okay.

It wasn't late.

Tonight, Riley would show, he was sure of it.

So why was his stomach trying to crawl out of his throat?

By nine o'clock, he was quietly pissed; still no sign of Riley. He drank more, to stop his brain from hurting. By ten, he knew it was too late. There must have been a mix-up over the day. 'Three nights from now' _was_ a bit ambiguous, when he came to think about it.

Could mean tomorrow night.

Or maybe Riley was being kept prisoner. Wouldn't that be an ironic reversal of fortune? Here he was, on the outside, and Riley might be the one in a cell underground – maybe even hoping Spike was going to do something about it. How could he find out?

Think, Spike!

The answer was obvious. If messages could be got out of the Initiative, they could be got in. He beckoned Willy over to him and said, "You knew, didn't you?"

"Knew what, Spike?" Willy eyed him nervously.

But Willy eyed everyone nervously, so that didn't mean jack.

"Knew about my … little handicap."

Willy twitched. "I might have heard something. On the grapevine. But you can't believe everything you hear. And I didn't tell no one Spike, honest."

"Okay, mate. Let's say I believe you. Favour for a favour. You get some information for me, and I'll let you use some inside knowledge to make a few quid."

"I don't serve seafood Spike, you know that."

Spike shook his head, and looked at Willy pityingly. "Not squid, you moron, quid. Mazuma, lolly, shekels, bucks, if you like."

Comprehension dawned. "Oh! Well why didn't you say?" Willy looked at him appraisingly. "So what do you need?"

Spike swizzled his glass and watched the liquid swirl around. "Know any F'kuth by any chance?" he said.

"I might know one or two," Willy conceded.

"Talk to them, get them to contact one of their brethren or clutch-mates or hive-buddies, whatever they call each other – the one in the underground lab. Find out what's happening to a human, name of … Riley Finn." Spike heard an embarrassing wobble in his voice when he said Riley's name. "He might be a prisoner. He might be dead."

There. He'd said it. To cover his distress, Spike downed his drink and banged the glass down for a refill. "Can you do that? By tomorrow night, mind?"

Willy twitched again and winked at him. "Sure, Spike, anything you say."

He waited, but when Spike didn't volunteer any information in exchange, he said, "So, what about the making-a-few-bucks part of the deal?"

"That's where you'll score if you're not the only one who thinks they know all about the chip." Spike thumped him on the shoulder, but the chip in question didn't fire this time. It was intent that counted.

~~

Three fights, one kill and two submissions later, Willy had made a decent purse from heavy betting against Spike's survival.

So: everyone had known.

And now they knew better.

Unlike last night, beating a few demons to a bloody pulp didn't make him feel so great. It was too easy.

So he drank.

He drank more.

And he waited.

Just in case.

Waited all night.

At five in the morning, Willy handed him a bottle of Jack Daniels and kicked him out; made him take the underground route, accessed through the basement.

Spike wasn't quite drunk enough to fall over, but the only thing keeping him upright was the knowledge that – for good or ill – he would know by tomorrow night.

As he went down the ladder to the sewers, Willy patted him on the back and said, "It's for your own good I'm throwing you out. Sunrise is in an hour. I'll get word for you. You get to cover."

Then Willy closed the hatch on him, saying quietly, "Sleep tight."


	8. The Waiting is Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again.

**Day 13**

_"'Yes, yes! It is the right day, but this is not the place.'"_

The sun blazed through the open curtains, into Riley Finn's face. He tried to claw his way back to sleep, but the light was so bright it was impossible. He shielded his eyes with one hand. A slight fuzzy headache began to make its presence felt.

What day was it? He couldn't quite remember. When he tried, he found his memories of the last few days were blurry and confused.

Had he been drinking? It didn't seem likely; he didn't think he usually drank too much – but that's what it felt like. Also, he was gonna have words with whoever had rolled his eyeballs in lint.

He stretched, and stretching made him wince. It felt like he'd been in a bust-up. When he got out of bed and looked in the mirror, he saw cuts and bruises, and what looked like claw- or tooth-marks on his chest. And there was a messy-looking gash on the palm of his left hand too; it was itchy as hell, and looked like it was having trouble healing.

The idea came to Riley that he'd been injured while preventing a Hostile from escaping. He couldn't remember what kind.

That was odd.

The robot bird chirped.

He took his vitamins.

He did some press-ups.

He pulled on some pants.

His looked around his room.

It was a bit of a mess. His gear was lying in a tangled heap on the floor. There must have been some kind of an emergency for him to have left it like that.

His mind slid away from the contemplation of it. Tidy it up, that was what he should do. He collected the stuff – mainly camping equipment – and stowed each item neatly in its designated place in his rucksack.

But something was missing – something that went in that side-pocket on the left. What was it? His groundsheet. He searched around the floor and in his pockets, but there was still no sign of it. It wasn't like him to lose a piece of equipment.

Oh well. Not really a problem. Get another from stores.

But there was something else on the floor: a tent peg, sharpened to a point. Why did he have a sharpened tent-peg? Was it a stake? The Initiative didn't use stakes to kill vampires. Did anyone _really_ use bits of wood to kill vampires?

He frowned, then zoned out again. Without further thought, he put the stake in the pocket left vacant by the groundsheet.

What was the next task?

Oh yes.

He was being TA Guy today. That meant he'd be seeing someone important.

He'd be seeing Buffy.

The thought seemed a happy one, but he wasn't really sure why.

She'd dropped some books on him, one time.

That couldn't be the reason, could it?

Oh.

Now he knew what it was.

He was going to ask her on a date.

And he had a feeling she'd say, 'yes'.

**Night 13**

_"And then the little bells are changed to tears …"_

It was the fourth night.

Or was it the third?

After he'd awoken from a restless, drunken sleep, Spike had spent the rest of the day worrying away at the problem. If you said 'three nights from now', but it was first thing in the morning, did that include the night that fell at the end of the day when you said it? The question was tying his brain in granny knots.

But surely, Riley would have wondered the same thing? If he could have come last night, would he not have?

Riley _must_ show up tonight. If he didn't: well, Spike didn't know what he was going to do.

By the time he arrived at Willy's, Spike's fingernails were bitten to stubs. He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly; afraid of what Willy might have to tell him; not knowing which was hurting him more, the thought that Riley might have come to harm, or the thought that he'd chosen not to show.

Both filled him with dread, but the visual of Riley in front of a firing squad, refusing the blindfold; dropping; falling … that was what was playing on a permanent loop in his head, tightening a band of iron around his heart. If he'd had to breathe, he would have been dead.

"You okay, Spike?"

Willy's use of his name brought Spike back to himself and he surged up to the bar. "Did you get anything?" he demanded. "Any messages? Anything from the F'kuth? Anything at all?"

Willy nodded and beckoned him in closer, even though there was no one else in the bar. "Man on the inside remembered hearing someone called Riley, yesterday morning. Said the guy's thoughts were muzzy, but he seemed upset. Then he didn't get anything more. He lost the signal."

Seeing the naked despair in Spike's eyes, Willy added hastily, "Don't worry, your guy didn't … well, he ain't expired. Our man was very definite about that. Your friend must just have gone above ground, out of range. F'kuth can't pick up thoughts from anyone through solid rock, except another one of their own kind."

Spike took a deep breath. So: Riley wasn't being held prisoner – at least not down in the Initiative. He'd been upset; maybe under interrogation. But if they'd let him go, why wasn't he here now? Why hadn't Riley at least got a message to him?

The last of Spike's confidence bled away; left him feeling like a shell. It was all so drearily predictable: and yet still such a blow to his heart.

How had this happened to him? It shouldn't be happening. He was a vampire. Vampires didn't fall for their dinner. Gratitude was all it was: only natural.

But it was futile. Try as he might, to expel the notion that love had any place in this, it was way too late for that. Because he'd said it, hadn't he? And he'd meant it.

They both had; or so he'd thought …

He knocked back one drink after another, flipped beer mats until Willy begged him to stop, and stared so hard at the door that some of Willy's potential customers had second thoughts about where they were spending the evening.

By nine o'clock Spike knew that if he didn't do something, he was going to implode. He slammed some bills on the bar, and left without his change.

Breaking into the College records office was easy, and the computer passwords were taped to the inside of one of the drawers. He searched the files for Lowell House, found out which room Riley was assigned, and located it on the floor plan.

Then he went back out into the night.

As he approached Lowell House, he started to take more care. One thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to get caught by the Initiative again. He stayed under cover near the trees while he worked out which window gave onto Riley's room. He counted the windows until he came to the right one.

The light was on.

Standing under a tree, looking up at that window, Spike had never felt so relieved, and yet at the same time so devastated. In silhouette against the light was the substantial figure of Riley Finn.

Spike was sure it was Riley.

But it couldn't be.

This was the third night – fourth if you counted the other way.

And Riley had _promised_.

Maybe the last time Riley had given his word, it had been a Sunnydale Promise.

That thought made Spike infinitely sad.

'Or maybe –' said a small voice from the bottom of Pandora's Box: '– maybe Riley was being watched – followed – and couldn't come without putting you in danger. Maybe even now, he's getting ready to go out and find the rendezvous. Maybe he's just as anxious as you are.'

Spike didn't dare go inside to find out, but he nearly did it anyway.

Instead, with shaking hands, he lit up. He burned his way through five cigarettes, watching the shadow come and go, and muttering, "Come _**on**_ Riley. Come_** OUT!**_" as though the repetition of the mantra would magically bring Riley Finn to the door of Lowell House.

At last the light went out.

Spike waited, breathing hard and praying to any deity who might be listening that Riley wasn't going down to the Initiative; that any second now he would be coming through that door.

The door opened.

It was Riley; he was okay.

Relief flooded through Spike. Circumspection forgotten, dignity abandoned, he broke from cover and almost ran to intercept Riley as he strode off down the path.

Riley noticed his approach and stopped, looking surprised.

"Riley, thank God!" Spike blurted. "Are you okay? What happened? I waited …"

Riley looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

Horror and disbelief warred for supremacy; Spike felt sure his brain was about to fuse.

As innocent as the first day Spike clapped eyes on him, Riley flashed him a goofy, apologetic smile. "Only, you do look kind of familiar. I just can't place where we've met. You know how it is."

Spike swallowed, his insides turning to lead. Kid wasn't messing with him, he could see that.

Riley didn't know him.

Didn't remember a thing.

Didn't remember that night …

…

Backing away, wide-eyed, Spike muttered, "Sorry mate. My mistake. Took you for someone else."

"But you said my name. You said 'Riley'."

"No, mate, you must have misheard me," Spike said. "I said, 'Really'. On account of I … wasn't expecting to see the bloke I mistook you for."

He'd tried to keep his face blank, but there was a quaver in his voice that he knew had betrayed him. The scrutiny of Riley's honest concerned eyes was unbearably painful; he closed his own eyes against it, as though that would prevent Riley seeing his misery.

~~

Riley didn't like to forget people he'd met. It was bad manners, and the guy _had_ known his name, he was sure of it. "But you looked like you'd been waiting for me. Over there?" he said.

The stranger was swaying. Actually he looked like he might be about to pass out, so Riley reached out a hand to steady him; gripped his arm. The man tried to pull away but Riley turned him back around and studied him.

"I'm sure I do know your face," Riley assured him.

He felt an unaccountable desire to recognise the strange British guy, even though he was beginning to wonder if this was some troubled soul who'd escaped from a mental institution. If that was the case, he shouldn't be wandering about Sunnydale on his own at night, especially the state he was in. All kinds of things might happen to him.

"How about you come for a drink with me," he said heartily, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed anything was wrong. "I'm sure we can work out where we know each other from." He looked at his new friend as unthreateningly as he could manage. "I'd appreciate the moral support, actually – that is, if you're not doing anything else."

~~

Spike knew what was going on. Riley was humouring him; trying to make him feel better, even though he hadn't the faintest idea who he was. Ever and still the White Hat. Even so, Spike stopped trying to get free. Maybe there was a spark of hope left …

"I'm meeting this girl I really like," Riley went on. "I'm kinda nervous about it. She's not easy to talk to. You'd be doing me a favour if you'd tag along, just for an hour – help me break the ice?"

Spike pulled out of his grip, and started walking at a tangent, back under cover of the trees.

~~

As the stranger disappeared into the woods, Riley's mind slid away from the encounter. He shrugged and turned to go.

He had things to do.

There she was in the distance.

His date.

She came shining down the path towards him, swinging her bag. "Hey Riley!"

Bright as a sunbeam.

~~

Buffy.

~~

Looking on from the shadows, Spike saw who it was that Riley was meeting.

It was scarcely believable, yet at the same time, totally inevitable, in this twisted hell to which he seemed to have been condemned.

He shook his head, though there was no one to see his denial; shoved his fists into his eye sockets, though there was nothing he could do to make it go away. He threw back his head to howl his despair at the waning gibbous moon, but his throat was so tight, all that came out was a pathetic, strangled, choking sound.

Something inside had snapped.

He watched his own hands as though they belonged to someone else, making meaningless jerking movements in the air.

Was this what it was like to go insane?

He rammed his shoulder against the trunk of the nearest tree, banged his fist against it, and then just clung to it, with his eyes tight shut.

Had the planets and constellations all combined in a special conjunction, just to cause him as much pain as was possible?

No; not the stars. They weren't to blame. It was his own fault; him and his bloody stupid heart.

A low, desolated whine escaped him; he slid bonelessly down the tree trunk to his haunches, and stayed like that, with his hands over his face.

And when at last he turned his tear-streaked face up to the firmament once more, it seemed to Spike the heavens must be in sympathy; because if he listened with his heart, he knew for sure the stars were weeping too.

**~ FIN ~**


End file.
